


Éinín—Little Bird

by crewdlydrawn



Series: Éinín [1]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Marijuana, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 38,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3485129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe in which John Blake never went to St. Swithin's as a child, instead running away from his foster home and being found--and eventually raised--by two mercenaries setting up plans for Gotham.</p><p> </p><p>[This fic was previously deleted, originally published July 2013.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was outside before he even realized he’d left the kitchen.  It was cold, and he could see his breath as it came in ragged pants, the tears streaking down his cheeks threatening to turn to ice as they crackled on his skin.  He’d slammed the door behind him, echoing in the quiet of the closely-packed street and its crooked, worn-out little interconnected row-homes, but no one had followed him yet, even as he stood on the front stoop for a couple of minutes.  The cold air was starting to hurt his lungs as his breath wasn’t settled, but it was cooling the heat of his skin after all of the screaming he had just gone through.  Outside he was shivering and he knew he would eventually start to freeze, but inside he was boiling and burning.  Rage warmed him more than his coat, left inside, could have hoped to do.

____________________

Hours earlier, he had ridden the bus home from P.S. 64, the fifth elementary school he’d been shuffled around to in the last two years.  It wasn’t strikingly different from any of the rest, maybe a bit more dirt hung around the floors and rusty lockers, maybe the kids were a bit tougher-looking and the teachers made less eye-contact, but for John Blake, it was all more of the same.  He had been there for about two months, just long enough for his teachers to learn that calling him by the first name on his record sheet wasn’t going to get them his attention.  Before his life had changed, he had gone by Robin, the name his real parents had picked for him. 

That boy was dead.

The newest set of foster parents hadn’t yet given up trying to call him by his ‘proper name,’ not ‘some silly nickname.’  He couldn’t blame them for trying, he supposed, since they still thought he was going to get over the anger that roiled his blood, defined him; they weren’t as smart as they were hopeful. 

The day hadn’t been much different from any of the others.  He’d slept through half of more than one class, always easier there than at a house, maybe because of the droning voice up front.  Lunch was its usual routine, sitting in the corner with the brown-bagged peanut butter and jelly, hoping for as much peaceful quiet as possible before the teachers made him get up and pick a table to sit at.  Problem was, no tables ever sat empty; as soon as he was forced onto a bench, its other occupants magically decided they were already done their lunches, no matter how much was left.  It left him alone again, which was good by itself, but it made him the center of attention in the cafeteria, and that was anything but good.  By that time, he was always done eating, as well, no matter how much of the sandwich was left.  The white-bread package was a semblance of care sent with him every morning, but it was a farce, a front, and his stomach never quite felt like eating in a room full of a hundred judgmental, scrutinizing eyes. 

His shoulders burned no more than usual by the end of the day, having been scuffed, bumped, and shoved into lockers and walls throughout it.  When he did nothing, it continued.  When he fought back, he was reprimanded, and it still continued.  If it wasn’t physical, it was the stupid sing-song stuff that kids thought made them clever, when really it just made them a bunch of unoriginal idiots.  _“No mommy, no daddy, guess Robin hatched from an egg!”_   Truly inspired.

A dozen other kids got off at his stop with him, at the end of his street.  Most were older, fifth and sixth-graders who pushed their shoulders past his on their way down the cracked and broken sidewalk.  A couple were younger, first-grade latchkey kids who managed giggles as they ran for the empty houses they called home until someone returned from work.  He was supposed to be in third grade this year, but his last school had held him back when he wouldn’t cooperate with their entrance evaluations.  It didn’t matter much to him either way; school was a blur no matter what they were teaching in class at the moment, or where.  He’d stopped listening.

He found himself face-first down on the sidewalk suddenly, hands scraping the rough concrete as his backpack was kicked up onto his head and laughter followed the feet that passed by.  Pushing up on his hands, feeling the bits of broken-off concrete bite into his skin, he tasted metal inside his mouth.  Most likely, he’d put his teeth through his lip, again; finding himself slammed into lockers, walls, and sidewalks had him remarkably used to the taste of blood and the feeling of small holes inside his mouth. 

“Just stay down like a good bitch, _Robin_ ,” came flinging back the unimaginative tease from one of the older boys; two others high-fived him.  None of the kids at each new school seemed to realize he had heard them all before.  Or if they did, they just didn’t care.

Rising fully to his feet, brushing his hair back from his eyes and his hands off on his worn-through jeans—not minding that dirt, concrete dust and a bit of blood smeared onto the material—he considered going after the boys, fighting back as he had earlier that day, and three days the previous week.  A look across the narrow street revealed he was already back at the house, however, and it seemed pointless to waste the energy when he could just go inside and have his peace and quiet until the adults came back.  They weren’t supposed to leave him alone in the house, orders from the social worker, but they always did it anyway unless they expected a visit.  No one followed the rules when the people in charge weren’t around to catch them; that was just the way the world worked.

The rest of the kids had either entered their houses or made it to the corner at the end of the street by the time he was unlocking the door to his residence of the moment.  Sliding the deadbolt back into place once the door was reclosed, he headed upstairs to clean up.  Aside from the concrete, there was still some dried blood on his cheek from the fight he’d gotten into at the school that morning.  It had earned him a trip to the principal’s office and, undoubtedly, a call home, as well.  ‘Home’… he snorted to himself at the thought of applying that word to the building in which he stood.  Home was a concept he just didn’t recognize anymore, something from a half-remembered dream, or from someone else’s life story. 

Cleaned up, he tossed his backpack onto one of the small beds that lined the room he shared with one older and two younger temporary-kids, flopping down beside it.  There were bound to be some homework papers inside awaiting his pencil, but he had no interest in bothering to fill them out.  After several minutes of staring at the ceiling above his head in the brief quiet he’d have before everyone else returned, however, he got bored, reaching into the bag to pull out a book he’d pocketed from the library stacks when no one was looking.  On the cover was a young boy, standing on a shoreline next to a man with only one leg, walking with a crutch under one arm and a gun in the other hand.  A sailing ship sat in the water in the background, and a black flag flew in the distance.  Something about the danger implied by the simple scene had called out to him when he saw it.  Danger and excitement, a lone adventure, and someone to follow—what more was needed? 

There were a good number of unfamiliar words even on the first page, but he started reading it anyway, briefly fancying that he might one day go off on some sort of adventure, though he knew full-well that sort of thing only went on in books, movies, and television; stories, only.  And it was stories that filled his dreams as he nodded off thinking about pirates and ocean-sailing and maps that lead to buried treasures.  For once, his mind hadn’t automatically filled itself with nightmarish memories: a half-forgotten car accident; a funeral service he had been too small to understand; finding his father sprawled out on the floor, bleeding out; the cold feeling of the police station; family court.  Pirates with eye-patches and peg-legs were preferable, by far.

The world suddenly went pear-shaped, the ocean view flipping upside down. A gigantic wave crashed down upon his head, and he was slamming into the ground, dropped from above it. Except it wasn’t sand, it was a hardwood floor, and there was the muffled sound of yelling a couple of feet above his ears.  

 “…—you TRYING to get in trouble, now?” the voice spoke, slowly getting clearer with each word.  It was his foster-father, probably just home from work and evidently having already gotten that phone call he was promised by the school’s secretary.  He was not a violent man, and John had never been beaten or physically mistreated in this particular house, but he’d been punished plenty, and the longer they had him the less they kept up the easy-going appearance they had shown when he’d first been transferred to them. 

Bed-without-dinner was the most common choice, followed by locking him in the small linen closet just outside the kids’ room, and least often the crawlspace accessed through the drop-down stairs in the hall.  They’d only resorted to that one a couple of times, and John had hated each one, had come back down a lot quieter and a lot meeker for being left alone in the dark with the creaking of the wind against the frame of the house.  This time, he must have pulled John off of his bed to wake him up.  He wasn’t even sure how he’d stayed asleep now they he could hear the screeching sounds of the other kids playing some game or another downstairs.

Shaking the hair out of his face, he pushed himself up off the floor to stand.  “No, sir,” he gritted, not applying the title as much out of respect as it was out of necessity. 

“Down to the kitchen. Now,” the man responded, pointing to the door.  “We’re going to talk about the trouble you’ve been getting into lately.” 

Talk, as always, meant them, not him.  He would sit at the table as they explained to him, again, what he was supposed to do, how they knew he had a hard time, but it had been so much time since then, he needed to move on, to get himself together. He was being given a good chance here, after all, and he didn’t want to mess it up with trouble, did he?  It was the same every time, and it was always followed by a call to his social worker. 

It hardly mattered to him anymore; getting a new set of ‘parents’ was almost a normal event by then.  He made his way down the stairs, passing the front room where the other kids—he hadn’t bothered to think of them by name, knowing either they’d leave or he would before too long—had a couple of beat-up looking board games set out in the middle of the floor and walking back around the hallway to the kitchen where his foster-mother was sitting at the small table, a mug of tea in front of her, face set in a blank expression.  She waited until they had all sat before giving him the speech.  He knew every word by then, and said them in his head as he heard them, until suddenly they were different out loud than they were in his mind.

“We’ve seen this kind of spiral before, Robin, and we’ve made a recommendation to your case worker,” she was saying.  John’s eyes snapped up at hearing the unfamiliar word set; they were off the script, now, and he didn’t know what was coming next.  He shifted in his seat, nervous at the sudden uncertainty.

Swallowing past the hard lump that had sprung up into his throat even as he grit his teeth over the use of his first name, he asked, “What did you say?”

The two adults shared a look, and a nod from her made it his turn.  “We recommended that foster care just doesn’t seem to be working out for you, Robin.  Janet agreed with us, and you’re going to be moved to Saint Swithin’s by the end of the week.”

“What?!” he heard himself exclaim.  He knew what Saint Swithin’s was. It was a boys’ home, a place kids went when no one in the world wanted to deal with them anymore, when everyone had given up on them.  If he was bullied _now_ …

 “You can’t!” he shouted, unaware at first that he had slammed his fist against the top of the table until he saw fear in her eyes.  “I won’t go!”

 “Robin,” she began, only to get interrupted.

“MY NAME IS JOHN!” he fairly screamed out.  His throat ached, but he couldn’t calm down.  The last bits of stability he had, no matter how much he resented them, were being kicked out from beneath his feet, like the stools that held up pirates before they were hung.

His foster-father was holding his shoulders, leaning down and trying to get him to settle, to breathe.  The man should have known it was a pointless thing to do.  John merely slapped and pushed the hands away, wrenching out of his hold. 

 “Robin, we can call Janet right now if we have to, and you’ll go tonight.”

Everything went red.


	2. Chapter 2

Though he couldn’t be completely certain without going back inside to check—and hell if he was doing that—he was pretty sure he hadn’t hurt either of them, or the other kids.  He knew from the burning in his chest that he had been screaming more, but aside from that, he had simply ended up outside in moments.  Janet would come, he knew, and his belongings, meager as they were, would be packed up and he’d be at the boys’ home by bedtime.  Except that wasn’t going to happen; he wasn’t going to let it.  He was done with it, all of it, and he wasn’t going to go back.

Hands balled into fists, hair hanging thickly and shading his eyes, he stomped down the steps to the sidewalk, taking one last look at the house before turning around and heading down the street.  Most of the houses still had lights on, but no one was outside.  The few street lamps smattering the street were already on; he knew it was starting to get late.  And colder.  And then it was snowing, lightly at first, just flurries and flakes, but soon it was blowing in his face, lifting his hair to sting into his eyes with sharp frost.  John crossed his arms tightly over his chest to shield himself, walking faster, not caring which direction he took.  It didn’t matter where he went, as long as it was ‘away from here’; far away.   So he kept walking.

It didn’t take long for him to reach a seedier part of the city from what he’d left, full of abandoned and half-finished housing projects, empty warehouses and long-since closed down factories.  Some of the rows he passed looked a lot like the one he’d been living in, but some were bigger, classier, and a few weren’t even connected to each other on the sides.  There was no grass still, it just didn’t exist in this part of the city, but there were small concrete alleys between each house, and the chimneys topping them gave them away for a lot more upscale than the last.  Well-off homes right next to the welfare neighborhoods.  Fitting.  They were all empty, though, and if they were fancier, they’d probably be warmer.

_Perfect_ , he thought.  And no one would care if he slept in one of them.  It wasn’t as if he had never slept in a house all by himself, anyways.  After his dad had been shot, it had taken a couple of days for anyone to realize that it had happened, and that John had been left by himself.  He had gotten himself up all three mornings, made messy sandwich lunches, and gone to school.  Getting up and making his own lunches had been nothing new in the time after the car accident, even before he’d been old enough for school; those were things she had done, not him. 

The bus had dropped him off at his stop both afternoons like nothing was different, and in the small crowd of neighbor kids greeting their own parents, no one had noticed that John had walked off alone.  His key got him inside, and once the door was locked again—just the bottom latches, he couldn’t reach the big deadbolt yet—he’d sat down on the floor in front of the small couch to wait for him to wake up.  At least, he’d waited the first day.  By the second day, he’d just sat and told him about his day, made up a story using the shadows growing along the walls as the sun had gone down; it hadn’t been as good as the stories his dad had told him before bed sometimes, but he’d done his best.  He hadn’t bothered going to his room to sleep when he could sleep close to him, instead. 

It had been the school’s nurse that had noticed the blood on his clothes the third day since he hadn’t thought much about changing them.  She figured out pretty quickly that it wasn’t his own when he didn’t have any marks from fights—he didn’t get into them, then—and she had gotten the story out of him.  He hadn’t cried; he had already been past tears by then.  They hadn’t let him go back to say goodbye, or to get anything, just shuffled him off to a county office and then a set of strangers with a couple of other kids with no parents stored in their house.  It had been the first he’d ever heard of the word ‘orphan’ when he’d been called one.

Passing one of the small, empty houses farther down the block, he paused.  Was that smoke coming from the chimney?  It couldn’t be, not if the neighborhood hadn’t even gotten finished.  No one could possibly actually live there, more than just sleeping there for the night like he wanted to.  But smoke meant a fire, and a fire meant warmth, and the thought made John suddenly realize just how cold he really was after wandering around for a couple of hours with no coat. 

Shivering, he climbed the front steps, slipping on the lip of one as the snow had made it slick.  He caught himself before his face hit; only managing to scrape his hands up a bit more on the rough material.  They were bleeding a little after, but he barely felt it for how numb they already were.  Scrambling the rest of the way to the door, he tried the knob, surprised to find it unlocked.  People were usually more cautious.  Opening it, he felt something in the back of his mind trying to warn him, but he couldn’t focus on it, only the cold and then the relative warmth as he closed the door behind him.  There was a fireplace in the first room he found, a low fire steadily burning and a large stack of wood in a pile along the opposite wall.  There was a metal folding wall in front of the fire, keeping the cold air away, he guessed.  Someone had taken their time with building and keeping it up.  The warning in his head became louder, but he stepped closer, relaxing in the heat as it started to thaw his body out.

Looking around once his teeth stopped chattering, he felt his stomach growl, and wondered if there was any food in the house, too.  It would be like stealing, but he had a couple of dollar bills and some coins from helping a neighbor with her groceries the other day, and he could leave it as payment if he ate anything.  It’d be like buying, not stealing, really, and he hadn’t had dinner or much of a lunch with the way he tended to hide out at school.  If he sat wedged into a corner, no one bothered him.  Eventually, one of the monitoring teachers would see him and guide him over to a table to eat, but once he was back in front of everyone at a table of kids either strangers or those who didn’t like him, he generally no longer felt like eating.  And he hadn’t thought in his rash leaving the house to grab his backpack that held the leftovers of lunch.  He had nothing now, unless he went back for it, and if he did that, he’d be caught and sent right to Saint Swithin’s, if not the police station for running away.  That had been threatened before.

No, it would be here or try to get a candy bar or something at a drugstore in the morning.  His money wouldn’t last long, and he knew it, but he could only deal with one problem at a time.  Now that he was warmed up a bit, the next problem was dinner.  Stepping slowly away from the fire, a little reluctant to lose its heat, John explored the small room.  There was the fireplace, of course, and the woodpile, and then there was a battered but sturdy-looking tool box unlocked along the same wall as the woodpile.  There was no furniture, no pillows or blankets or bags, just the tool box.  He walked over to it, opening its lid and carefully settling it back as doing so raised several small shelves with storage bins.  It reminded him of an old tackle box his dad had had, even though he couldn’t remember if he’d ever actually gone fishing.  Running his hands over the bins and shelves, he did not discover tackle for fish, but small tools and pieces to change their shapes like screwdriver heads or drill bits.  In one clasped box set into the bottom, more open space of the container, he found small, cylindrical metal pellets, and he dropped the box quickly as if it had burned his hand.

Bullets. 

He knew what those were; he’d seen casings—that’s what the police had called them—on the floor when his dad had been shot.  The box fell to the floor after hitting the edge of the tool box, scattering the bullets with a terribly loud sound in the quiet emptiness of the house, even though the sound itself wasn’t very large.  Something in the toolbox caught his eye when he looked back to it, and he quickly leaned back over it after his startlement.  Pulling out the plastic wrapper he’d seen, he was relieved to find a set of beef jerky strips stowed away along the wall of the box’s main compartment.  He held them tightly to his chest, reaching into the pocket of his jeans to lift out and then deposit one of his dollars into the top shelf of items, closing the lid.  He just couldn’t touch the bullets, even if he was sorry for the mess they made on the floor.  He never wanted to touch those again in his life.

His fingers fumbled a little as he worked to rip open the package, but after a few moments he managed to get it, shoving the strip into his mouth and biting off a chuck, chewing in relief.  Only after the first few mouthfuls of the salty meat did he remember that he hadn’t found or brought a drink.  Would half-finished and unoccupied houses have water running from faucets?  It was worth checking, he decided.  Taking the snack with him, he warmed himself a bit more close to the fire before turning to walk back out in search of a kitchen or bathroom that would have a sink. 

He walked right into the chest of a man.  Backpedaling instantly as if he’d bounced back off, John tripped over his own feet and started to fall backwards towards the fireplace, but his shirt was grabbed up tightly and he was lifted bodily from the floor, off his feet as they kicked at the air in an attempt to balance himself.  Finding nothing to plant his feet on, he reached up and grabbed the arm that held him with both hands, wide eyes looking up to see a rust-colored beard framing a sharp face.  He hadn’t dropped the beef jerky, and so the man used his free hand to pluck it from John’s.

“This is mine, I believe,” spoke an accented voice.  John wasn’t positive, but the accent sounded Scottish, maybe; at the least, it made him think of movies involving kilted warriors with blue face paint.  There was that kind of a lilt to it. 

“What have we here?” asked another voice.  It had to be another man, from its depth, but it didn’t sound real, it sounded too much like a machine.  The quality of it reminded him of something out of a sci-fi movie, and he couldn’t help imagining the owner of the voice in a black, shiny helmet and caped suit to go along with the raspy breathing and modified tone.  If he pulled out a sword made of light, John was going to be really concerned—half for the danger and half for his sanity if this was what he dreamt up when he got too cold. 

They were two movie characters, neither voice from real life.  As the second voice stepped closer, each step thumping heavily against the floorboards, John thought he might actually be in a dream.  There was a bunch of metal encasing the man’s face, over his mouth and nose.  John couldn’t even see the guy’s ears.  He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it; he’d never seen anything else like it before in his life, not in real life.  Maybe he _was_ dreaming, maybe none of this was real, and maybe he wasn’t getting sent off to the boys’ home after all.  It was just a wish, though.  The man holding him felt all too real for a dream.  This wasn’t a movie, it wasn’t a dream, and the second man’s mask was really and truly scary.

“A stowaway visitor, it seems,” answered the first man, the one with the beard.  He didn’t sound angry, it almost sounded like he thought the situation was funny, actually.  Given the circumstances, John wasn’t entirely sure which was worse—especially since he just caught sight of a long, metal and plastic handle sticking up from behind the man’s shoulder, a thick strap holding it in place over the shoulder and across his chest which was covered in the kind of vest cops on TV wore, though John had ruled out the cop option for the men rather quickly.  He had been around the police a number of times, and cops didn’t tend to live in abandoned houses, or wear crazy-looking masks. 

He tried to speak, to say anything in his own defense, but words would not come out, as if they had all been locked in his throat and he couldn’t find the key.  Key… that was what was in front of his face, suddenly, dangling from the string that still hung about his neck.  The masked man must have seen the string when he’d been picked up by the other man.

“What does this open, I wonder?” the mask hissed out, and the man gave the string a sharp, hard yank that hurt John’s neck as it forced the thread to give way, the key remaining hanging from the man’s hand as he examined it a bit closer to his face.  It must have been hard to see with the strap of the mask in the way.  “Domestic, certainly,” he spoke to the other man.  After a moment, he slipped the key and its string into his pants pocket.

Eyeing John up and down, the bearded man nodded.  “At this age, I suspect it is to his home.  But why,” he continued, rattling the beef jerky lightly at John as he spoke, “would a boy with a home and its key come looking for trouble and stealing food?”


	3. Chapter 3

“I didn’t steal it.”  His voice had finally unlocked itself, though it could probably have picked a better start.  The bearded man’s eyebrows lifted in question, since, obviously, it _was_ his beef jerky that John had taken from the tool box.  Pointing at the box while still holding tightly to the arm suspending him above the floor, he clarified, “I left money for it in there.  I bought it; I just… didn’t have your permission first.”  It sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears, but it still held a semblance of logic; after all, with the dollar he had left, the men could just go and buy another set of dried beef strips.  He had only changed what they had from food to money, not, ultimately, taken something from them. 

The eyes of the bearded man seemed to twinkle in amusement even more than his tone had.  “A store has more options than a tool box, I would think,” he informed, tilting his head slightly to the side as he regarded John again.  “Why are you here?  You don’t look dirty enough for a squatter.”

John swallowed, wishing as his throat scraped against itself that he had found that faucet before being caught.  He croaked out a scratchy sound before having to clear his throat to speak.  “I-I’m not… I…”  He stopped, shutting his mouth tightly.  No one was owed an explanation of his life or even his day, and if they were going to hurt him anyway then it didn’t matter where he came from or who he was. 

 “Set him down,” ordered the masked man quietly.  The bearded man obeyed without hesitation, lowering John until his feet brushed the floor, letting him drop just the last couple of inches, enough that he stumbled slightly and had to work to catch his balance.  The dreamt-up movie characters were starting to feel like bullies.

Eyes narrowing on either side of the strap that ran up his forehead and over the back of his shaven scalp, the masked man stepped closer to him with his heavy boot-falls.  “You were out in the cold for a while.”  It wasn’t a question; he just knew, somehow, but John felt compelled to nod anyway.  Something in the man’s eyes drew his own into them, held them fast, and he found himself staring into them and not even looking at the mask as he spoke.  “Have you run away, little one?”  It was asked, but he still sounded like he already knew the answer.

John hadn’t wanted to answer, but the eyes drew it out of him.  “Yes, sir,” the title was too automatic to be left off, but it felt more appropriately used on this man than on his foster father or teachers; this was the kind of man he imagined even grown-ups would feel the need to call ‘sir.’  And when the eyes merely continued to pierce into his, he continued, “They were gonna send me to a boys’ home.”

“An orphanage,” the bearded man added, and the mask nodded in recognition.

“They did not want you?”

“I… I’ve had fights, and… yeah,” he agreed quietly.  “They don’t want me anymore.”  Then if only to fill the silence that followed he added, “Only had me for two months, anyways.  Shortest ones yet.”  The beard tilted his head, looking John up and down again.

 “And your parents?” the beard asked, turning the beef jerky packages over in his hands. 

John stood a little more firmly, determined not to let the question bother him, keeping the feel of the words out of his voice like he’d been practicing for the past two years.  Sympathy was great when you wanted it, but a curse when it seemed to never end, when no one could look at you the same once they found out your parents were dead.  It was as if you turned into someone completely different in their eyes.  “They’re both dead,” he answered, proud of how smooth his voice sounded, how steady he kept his gaze.

The two men shared a brief look before John was suddenly handed back the beef jerky; well, the open one.  The other was stashed away into the bearded man’s pocket.  “Eat,” he said.

Grunting quietly, the mask turned around away from John, plucking three larger logs from the woodpile before walking back to stoke and refresh the fire.  It flared higher, and John could feel the heat of it on his back.

 “What is your name, boy?” the beard asked as he watched him start back in on the jerky.

He hesitated, but even though this man’s eyes were not as demanding as the mask’s, there was instead a quiet to them that compelled John to fill up its space with answers.  “John,” he spoke before swallowing his bite and repeating it more clearly.  “John Blake.”  Adults were always warning kids not to talk to strangers, to never tell them where you lived or your whole name, but John had nowhere to go, no family attached to his last name anymore, and there seemed little use in trying to protect it.

 “Robin Blake,” the mask corrected from behind him.

John spun around.  The taller man was holding the small wallet he had nearly forgotten he had with him, the one that contained his school ID card and a business card with his name and his case worker’s name and number in case of emergencies.  He must have slipped it from the pocket of John’s jeans, though he hadn’t felt a thing.

“It’s _John_ ,” he corrected sharply, making a grab for the wallet and failing utterly.  “I don’t use that one.  It’s _just_ John.”  He looked down, then, away from those eyes.  “It’s Robin John, but that’s what _they_ called me.  I don’t want to be called that, anymore.”  He didn’t like having to explain that, to admit without saying that it hurt to think of himself as his mother’s son, as his father’s baby bird.  There had been a song he used to sing for John some nights, the good nights, his voice soft and rich even in John’s memory; a song about a baby robin learning how to fly.  It had been his song, their song, and John could still hear it whenever he tried to sleep in beds that weren’t his own, in houses that weren’t his home, though it had begun to grow more faint with time.  He held the song and the name to himself, in his heart, and no one could take them from him.  But the name also belonged to them, to their family, and they were dead, and his family was dead, and so was Robin.

“I am Barsad,” the beard simply replied.  He didn’t offer a second name, and far be it from John to ask anyone for a name not offered.

Nodding, John gave a small wave, thinking to himself how silly the motion was at the moment.  “Hi.”

However silly it was, the wave earned him a small smile from Barsad.  It was a cold smile, not like his dad’s had been, and rather like the judge who had handed him over to the city’s care two years ago.  That one had been given to calm him, to reassure him, but it had held no affection.  “Hello, John,” he was greeted in return.

Now that he had the jerky, was warmer, and hadn’t yet been hurt or actually threatened, John started to relax a little; there was only so long he could sustain that level of tension in his body.  If he wasn’t going to Saint Swithin’s, he would have to live on the streets, and it would be good if he could make some friends, or at least know anyone else.  Even better if those friends were adults who could have access he couldn’t.  Mustering up his courage as the masked man finished with the fire, he finally voiced the question his mind had wanted to ask when he’d first spotted the smoke streaming out of the chimney from outside on the street.  “What are _you_ doing here?”

The cold smile returned.  “Business,” Barsad supplied. 

 “I’m a kid, not stupid,” John snapped back with a snort.  “Businessmen don’t stake out abandoned houses with weird masks and guns.”

Barsad’s eyebrows rose and he chuckled lightly, the masked man letting out a quiet, throaty sound that could have been a short laugh.  “There is a fire in this one,” spoke the mask, the tone of it sounding almost… fond?  “Perhaps his understanding exceeds his years.”

 “Are you criminals?” he asked bluntly, taking another big bite of the jerky and not taking his eyes off them.

The two men shared a look, and Barsad got a nod from the masked man as he stepped heavily over to sit on the wide windowsill along the wall, making the wood creak under his weight.  “At times,” Barsad answered John.  “We do not live inside the laws others make, and sometimes that leads us to break them.”

John thought that over for a few moments.  The logic seemed sound enough—he had seen lot of unfair things happen to other people because of laws keeping things unbalanced in the city.  It made sense, he guessed, to make your own to follow if you could.  With that, he was suddenly reminded of an image and a character.  “…Like pirates?” he asked, looking up at the men curiously, and just a little bit in wonder.

“Yes,” Barsad smiled, slightly more warmly this time.  “A bit like pirates.”  He turned then, and set the large rifle down to lean it up against the wall as he strode out of the room and into the hall.  John was surprised that his foot falls, in contrast with the masked man’s, made no sound on the wooden floors.  It was as if a cat walked around instead of a solidly-built man.

Unsure if he should move, John stood still in the middle of the room, finishing off the jerky strip and shoving the wrapper in his pocket.  He hadn’t seen a can or bag for trash, and he wasn’t going to just drop it on the floor.  The masked man was working off the straps of his boots, resting each one on the floor once they were slid off of his feet.  Next, the thick vest he had worn joined the boots, and somehow the man looked even more imposing for having less of his armor on.  His arms were the size of John’s head, maybe even bigger, considering he was pretty sure that one of the man’s hands could wrap around his head easily.  It could also probably squish it in one squeeze, if he wanted.

Nearly jumping out of his skin as a cup appeared in front of him, John did his best not to dump its contents on the floor as his arm flailed.  He was only chuckled at as he carefully took the water from Barsad who had soundlessly returned, and he took a grateful gulp immediately.

“You sounded thirsty,” Barsad explained.

“I was, thanks,” he answered, nodding and swallowing down more of the cool water.  It tasted a little different than he was used to, but he couldn’t figure out what exactly was different about it, not quite like medicine but not quite like a drink from a water fountain at school.  “Wh-what is in—” but he couldn’t get any further, his tongue felt too thick.  His eyelids were getting heavy, and the rest of his body was slowly starting to feel as if it were filled with sand instead of muscle and bone.  He crumpled to the floor, only he landed on a cushion, a sleeping bag, he discovered through lidded eyes.  “Wh—” he could barely move his mouth as he was guided down into the bag, the rest of it wrapped around his shoulders.  It was thick and warm, and he caught a glimpse of ruddy beard as his eyes gave up fighting the sinking and the world turned black and dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Warm.  More than anything else he felt when he woke, he felt warm.  Dizzy was a close second, but that wore off after a few moments.  Propping up on his elbows, he blinked his eyes to clear the sand out of them as he looked around the dark room.  There were two other sleeping bags on the floor nearby, but they were empty.  He wondered briefly why there had been three bags for just two of the men, but was distracted by an ear-piercing siren just outside the front of the house.  Head jumbling as he whirled around and ducked back down, he saw the flash of blue and red roof lights, and the sweeping brightness of a spot light.  It burned through the air above his head as it flowed in through the windows, intermittent because of boards nailed to the outside, feeling like an eternity before it finally faded and he felt he could sit back up, if not relax.  The room swam a bit in his vision, the flickering light of the fire distorting the shape of the woodpile and its shadows.  He felt strange inside, like he was still in a dream, but could swear he was awake.

 “And you thought he would sleep through the night,” the hissing, rolling voice intoned from beyond the reach of the fire’s light.  The masked man and the bearded man, Barsad, slowly stepped into his field of vision, the first carrying a large pack over to the corner of the room, the second crouching down in front of John. 

 “Aye,” he breathed in reply, looking John over and seeming to have little or no trouble seeing the details of his appearance even in the low light, even with John facing away from the fire.  “Are you awake, now?”

He wasn’t entirely certain, but he nodded anyway, reaching up to hold his head after, not realizing just that movement would make him nauseated.  “Yeah, I think.”  His mind was fuzzy on the details, but he didn’t remember going to sleep.  “Nnph…” he closed his eyes just briefly, just against the glow of the fire as it was revived once more behind him.  When he opened them again, the masked man had moved, there were more packs inside the small room, the bullets he had spilled earlier were all cleaned up, and he was once again lying down.  Barsad was at his side still, or again, he couldn’t say for sure.  Everything was just jumbled inside his head.

 “Rest, little bird,” he heard the soft voice above him soothe.  “Close your eyes and rest.” 

John looked up and saw his father’s face, smiling kindly at him, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.  The firelight… the face changed, and he was once again looking at the bearded man and not the smooth face of his dad.  He bit back tears, too tired to be strong against the sudden loss.  But then he heard it, the soft breathing of a song.  He couldn’t understand the words, it couldn’t have been English, but the sound of it was comforting, quieting, and he was so tired that he found himself laying his head back down and letting sleep reclaim his mind and body.

____________________

Next John opened his eyes, there was natural light streaming across his face from between the wooden slats that covered the front windows.  It was soft, still greyer than it was golden or white, the kind he saw in the mornings before school.  That thought had him bolting upright, his brain telling him that he would once again be late enough to miss the bus that stopped at the end of the block, and that he would have to walk again, freezing as his coat never fully accounted for the wind that whipped between the buildings.  Walking in meant he would be late for class, which generally earned him a trip to the office, if not also the smack of a ruler on his hands.  He’d heard the nuns at the private schools were worse, but his teachers could be harsh. 

Blinking a bit blearily, he realized in moments that, no, he was not in his room, and, no, he was not going to be late for school.  He was tangled in a sleeping bag on the bare floor of a strange house, a fire crackling lowly behind him, and he wasn’t going to attend class that day; or ever again, if he could manage it.  Spotting the three-deep pile of duffle bag packs piled in the corner, he wondered what had gone on while he was sleeping.  He gave the room a glance around as he drew his legs out of the bag with a bit of effort given how they had twined up with the material, then stood slowly, as quietly as he could.  Being no ninja or stealthy pirate, his feet rustled against the vinyl of the sleeping bag, but he couldn’t imagine the sound would carry very far. 

The other two sleeping bags had been folded back over, zipped, neatly rolled and tied.  An idea striking him, and he stepped over to press his hand against the middle bulge of the bags, feeling no warmth emanating from the roll.  If it was any accurate way to tell, the two pirate-criminal men had been awake and gone for a while.  That probably meant they weren’t still in the house, he concluded, allowing that to warrant a stepping over toward the duffle bag pile.  Eyeing them didn’t tell him anything.  The way they laid over one another stiffly suggested solid material inside, but if they were the kind of bags that had a hard lining, he supposed that wouldn’t hold true.  There was only one way to find out for sure, of course. 

Giving another look toward the hallway that he could see more of with a bit of light coming in from the outside, John leaned over the pile, reaching to poke and squeeze at the side of one of the duffles.  It was stiff, indicating a solid kind of liner with how smooth it seemed, rather than a solid object inside.  So there really could be anything inside of them, he thought to himself.  Inspecting the top of one of the bags, there was an insignia sewn into the flap that he didn’t recognize.  It looked vaguely like it could have been a modified set of initials, the kind fancy rich people got on their towels and sheets and stuff.  Trying to remember his cursive, he was torn between whether the initials spelled out “CT” or “CF.”  Writing had never been his best subject, and the two letters looked far too similar the more curves and curlicues were added to them, especially if a person’s personal flair was to drag the end of one of the loops across the rest of the letter.  He finally decided on “F” for that fact, figuring that, if they were initials, monograms he thought he remembered that being called, somebody wouldn’t want to make it look too much like the wrong letter for fear someone else might think it was theirs or something.

If the bags belonged to the two men, then either Barsad was a fake name or the masked man’s initials were “CF.”  With how they acted, however, and admitting they were criminals of sorts, he doubted that the bags originally belonged to either of them.  In fact, it stood a good chance that whoever they _did_ belong to hadn’t given them over to the men by choice.  That thought gave him a bit of a shudder, but it also excited him, churned up the curiosity that was burning in his belly to know what was inside the bags.  Biting his lower lip between his teeth, he reached to take the double zipper tabs in his hands, trying to slide them quietly in their square-ish arc around the top flap, but unable to help the _thwip-thwip_ sound they made as they separated each of the little plastic teeth.  Someone should really invent silent zippers for people who moved through houses without making a sound; they’d probably get a good market for them, if this city was any indication, he thought.  Looking back one last time to the hall, he flipped open the flap, revealing stacks upon stacks of paper bills.

Of course it was money.  Like a chest full of treasure. 

John couldn’t believe he’d ever thought it would be something else, really.  Wasn’t that how all the gunmen were paid in movies, all of the ransoms?  He had to wonder what the two men had done to warrant a payment of this much money.  He could see some stacks with 20s, but most held 50s or 100s, bills John hadn’t seen in person a day in his life.  Not possibly able to do the math for that bag let alone the others, he couldn’t fathom how much money it was in total, but it had to at least be thousands, maybe tens of thousands.  His eyes were drawn to the other bags, remembering only a couple had been brought in the first time he’d woken up.  Had there been more, then, just not moved to that room, or had they gotten more, later?

Heavy boot steps suddenly caught his attention from somewhere in the back of the house.  Eyes widening and face flushing with nerves, he flipped the top of the bag back over, zipping the tabs closed too quickly and making that awfully loud _zip_ noise, but it couldn’t be helped.  He knew that they’d probably heard it, and if Barsad who moved more silently was in front, he had definitely heard.  Still, he settled the bag as close to as it had been as he could, hopping back over to sit on the bedroll as if he had just awoken at the sound of their approach.

The mask appearing first gave him a false hope that he hadn’t been discovered; Barsad was right behind him, a large automatic-looking weapon hanging at his side from his hand, far too relaxed for anyone’s comfort level.  The man was quite clearly well used to carrying that kind of weapon, and casually.  As they entered, both looked immediately to John, the masked face simply raised an eyebrow and Barsad’s mouth spread slightly in a closed-lip smile.  John was as certain of the fact they must have been mocking him as he was of anything else in his life.

But they didn’t even mention the bags, or the zipping sound, or anything that would indicate they had heard, that they knew.  The masked man, in fact, did not say anything at all, merely gave John a nod and a grunted greeting before stepping over to the pile of duffles.  John held his breath, but the man only set a folder binder on top of the packs, his shoulders shifting just a little.  The movement reminded John of when his dad would come home after a long day at work, right before he went for the scotch he kept in the cupboard.  The memory was so strong he could hear the clink of glasses as if he were right there in the kitchen again. 

Rather than glass, the actual sound that met his ears was a solid clunk as Barsad set the gun he held on the floor, disappearing briefly before adding what John could only guess, from movies and other boys’ video games, was a sniper rifle.  The barrel was long, but wider than John would have expected.  The entire gun, in fact, was larger than life, with triangle-shaped legs attached to the bottom, probably for stability.  He would have thought it would have been the masked man who carried that kind of weight, not the much smaller Barsad.  Though he did notice that while Barsad’s vest and belt were littered with straps of bullets and sharp metal tubes he guessed went along with the longer rifle, the other man’s armor and clothing was completely bare of anything resembling ammo.  There weren’t even any straps that seemed logically capable of holding a gun, either.

There was a sharp set of clicks and Barsad slid off his hard-shelled vest, setting it on the floor beside the guns.  His body still looked far from slight and frail without the attachment, but it was notably smaller, especially where the other man’s torso had looked little different when he’d removed _his_ earlier.  Under the vest was the thick, blandly-colored material of his jacket, or really just a thick shirt, which was promptly pulled off over the man’s head, ruffling his hair a little in the back.  Pirate-criminals didn’t look quite as scary without armor and with rumpled hair and plain black tee-shirts, John noted.  He looked much more like a regular man, suddenly.  The masked man, however, looked unique even below the neck.  He had taken off his own shirt layers, and unzipped one of the duffle bags that apparently held clothing instead of money, pulling out a tee that John didn’t think would ever fit over his arms and shoulders.  It did, however, and as it was slipped over the man’s head and carefully guided over his bulk, John got a glimpse of a terrible scar running from the back of the man’s neck all the way down to the base of his spine.  The pinker skin shone in the light from the windows, and his mind reeled at trying to think what awful injury must have happened in order to get a scar that big, that long, all the way down his back.

Like a pirate with a missing leg.  Like the pirate from the book he’d left back at the house.  He did want to read it, still, though he didn’t know when he would get a chance to read books again if he lived in a building with no furniture; that is, assuming he was staying for any length of time in the abandoned house.  The two men hadn’t kicked him out, yet, but they also didn’t seem to know about his snooping, either. 

Shirt resettled, the masked man turned back around, holding a string in his hand, after a moment dropping John’s key from it so it dangled there.  “You will need supplies,” he spoke simply. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Uhm…” John hesitated, unsure exactly what was going to happen.  “Supplies?”

 “Yes,” hissed the mask, “from where you lived.”  He tossed the key to Barsad, who caught it easily, even though there hadn’t been a warning that he was going to throw it.  “Barsad will take you.”

 “…To… to my h-house?” he stammered, eyes widening at the thought of going back there, of getting caught, of Janet or the police picking him up and sending him to Saint Swithin’s.  Before he knew it, he was standing, shaking his head and backing away from the two men.  “I-I can’t… I can’t go back there, they’ll find me!”

 “It’s still early, little one… do they work during the days?”  Barsad was tucking a much smaller gun into the back of his pants, covered by his shirt. 

John froze in his seat at the sight of it.  It wasn’t a scary gun, especially when compared to the much-larger ones sitting at the man’s feet, but those guns hadn’t been packed to go on a trip to John’s foster parents’ house.  What if they _were_ home?  What if something really bad happened?  Even if he was mad at them, he didn’t want to see them _shot_. He gulped, and only managed to find his voice again because those icy, deep blue eyes were boring into his.  “Y-yes… they both work.”

 “Then there is no problem,” announced the masked man, a sense of finality to his tone that squelched any possible argument.

Barsad had already re-tied the string so it had a closing knot, and hung it about his neck, tucked beneath the hem of his tee-shirt.  “You’ll be safe,” he assured.  “Are you ready?”

The initial shock worn off, the implication clicked into John’s mind.  “Wait… if I’m getting my stuff, does that mean I can stay here?” he asked, trying to keep the hesitancy out of his voice though he knew it wouldn’t stay out completely.

 “For now,” the masked man answered, having already turned to open up the binder sitting on top of the packs.  He nodded to the side at Barsad, and the shorter man beckoned for John to follow him out of the room.  John obeyed swiftly, being led down through the middle of the house, past a couple of even less finished looking rooms than in the front.  There was a back door in a stripped-down kitchen room with no appliances or cabinet doors, and after grabbing a thick coat from a hook beside it, Barsad led him outside. 

The house butted up to an alleyway, all concrete, rocks and broken glass.  Parked up against the back wall was a sleek, dark-colored motorcycle.  Holding his arms crossed over his chest at the chill in the air even with the sun steadily rising through the sky, John watched as Barsad stepped lightly over to the cycle, walking it out from the wall to the smoother part of the alley. 

 “Wow,” he breathed, unable to help staring at the bike.  He’d always wanted one, always thought they were the coolest way to ride around.  Suped-up sports cars were nice and all, but a motorcycle was just so much _cooler_. 

Barsad looked back, giving a small chuckle at John’s admiring, then tossed him a helmet that was far too large for his head.  He caught it, but nearly fumbled it for how bulky it felt in his arms.  “You’ll wear that.”  It wasn’t a question.

John turned the helmet over in his hands, an effort in itself, managing to rather awkwardly tug it over his head.  It made his head feel so heavy he wobbled a bit, earning a more pronounced chuckle from Barsad.  With the visor down, he could barely see anything, but he headed for the sound of the laugh and reached out his hands to feel for the bike, recoiling in embarrassment when he instead found the man’s stomach.

 “Sorry,” he quickly got out, feeling his cheeks heat up as he was guided to the seat of the bike with two strong hands on his shoulders, then lifted by the hands gripping his waist and hoisting him up as if he weighed next to nothing.  “Uhm, thanks,” he said quietly, his voice making a muffled echo inside the helmet.

Barsad climbed on in front of him, starting the bike with a kick that jostled John against the seat.  “Hold your arms around my waist while we ride, so you don’t fall,” he ordered, and John quickly obeyed, thankful he’d have something to hold onto even if it meant he had to touch the man again and feel a bit more embarrassed.  The world gave a sharp lurch beneath him, and he held on tightly as the bike roared out of the alleyway, leaning to the side as they turned onto the main road at the end.  It was only after they were steadily on their way, the bike deafeningly loud beneath him, that he realized he had never given the man his address.  All they had was the key, that shouldn’t have been enough to find someone’s house, right?  He tried to call out to ask about it, but his voice was lost to the helmet, wind, and the noise of the bike.  Shifting his arms, he considered tapping him or tugging at his shirt, but worried it would distract him dangerously.  As it was, one rough-skinned hand briefly shot down from steering the bike to settle over his, keeping them clasped together around his waist, barely touching as they were for his width.  John gave up trying to get his attention.

After about a five-minute ride that had his head rattling inside the helmet and his bottom feeling asleep from the motor’s vibration, they finally leaned around to a stop, engine dying down.  Only when long, slender fingers worked his open did he realize how tightly he had been clinging to the man’s waist.  He felt sheepish all over again, and knew his cheeks were a bit flushed when the helmet was lifted off of him and set to dangle over one of the bike’s handles.  Finally able to look up from staring at the ground, he raised his head, discovering that he was in the alley access behind his street. 

 “H-how the hell…” he couldn’t even finish as Barsad helped him down and off of the seat.  “I never said where it was,” he spoke up when his feet were back solidly on the ground, if a little shakey.

He received a small amused smirk in reply as Barsad slipped the key over his head to hold it.  “Does this open the back door as well, or just the front?” he asked, changing the subject and squinting as he eyed the row of houses.

 “Both, I think…” John answered, still mystified. 

 “Good,” came back the quick response as Barsad motioned for him to follow him to their back door, amazingly picking the correct one on the first try.  Not even giving a glance in each direction down the alley, he slid the key smoothly into the lock, silently opening the door and casually leading John inside the house.  “Now,” the man spoke just barely above a whisper in the quiet back room.  “We are going to be extra quiet.”  He held a finger up to his lips to add emphasis.

 “But no one’s home,” John argued quietly even so, confused.

 “Aye,” Barsad breathed, looking toward the front of the building as he pulled a folded-up burlap bag from a satchel John hadn’t even seen him carry or put on.  “But by now they’ll be looking for you, and so we’ll not let anyone suspect you’re here, hmm?”  Handing the sack to John, he ushered him upstairs.  “Which room is yours?”

John pointed.  “This one.”  Walking inside, his stomach tightened a little at seeing his things already packed into a pair of boxes.  Disguising a sniff as a scoff, he stepped over to start picking through which things he really wanted or needed to take.  “Didn’t waste any time, did they,” he muttered.  He could hear the bitterness in his own voice, but wouldn’t change it even if he could.  Bitter, angry… it didn’t make a difference, especially now.  The time for pretending to be part of the world was over for him, even if he ended up on his own after this.  Why bother, when he knew he would never really be a part of it again?

The small white square of a tissue appeared in front of his face, and only then did he realize he had been crying as he packed.  Embarrassed, he took it, wiping his eyes and then blowing his nose, knowing from the heat he felt that he had to be red all the way to the tips of his ears.  It was maddening, to feel like such a fool.  So he sniffled back any more tears before they could form, finishing the packing and setting the stolen library book on top of the meager pile he’d created.  When he stood, he found that Barsad’s eyes were on him, a look in them that spoke more than words that he understood; somehow, some time in the past, Barsad had felt this kind of pain, this anger.

 “There is no shame to be found in tears of heartache, little one.”  Not leaving any time for John to argue, he continued, “If you’re finished, we’re almost ready.”

John tilted his head at that.  “ _Almost_ ready?  What’s left?”

 “Groceries,” Barsad answered, looking amused with himself. 

Groceries, it turned out, meant raiding his foster parents’ cupboards and refrigerator for food to take back with them.  They packed the rest of the sack with bread, some boxes of pre-seasoned pasta and rice, then filled Barsad’s satchel bag with cheese, deli meat, and as many pieces of fruit from the fridge as would fit before the flap no longer clasped shut.  All considered, there were several meals’ worth of ingredients, depending on how much each of them ate.  He found himself wondering how much the masked man could possibly eat with his mouth covered.  Maybe he took it off to eat, but then what was underneath it?  Why did he need it, anyway?

Once the bags were filled to capacity, Barsad slid the satchel over his head and shoulder, instead settling it over John’s.  “You’ll carry this on the seat, and I’ll strap this to the back, behind you,” he explained.  Just before stepping out the door and after ushering John through first, Barsad hung the key from the inner doorknob, locking and closing the door behind him.  There was a sense of finality to it, to locking the key inside, to leaving for good; leaving his life behind him.

Barsad allowed him a few moments to look at the house before he lifted him and settled him back onto the rear seat of the bike.  The sack had already been strapped to the very back of the bike by bungee cords.  He put the helmet on again, holding tightly around Barsad as they sped away once again.  It felt less embarrassing this time, knowing that the man understood some part of him.  Like maybe he could be his friend.


	6. Chapter 6

About a week went by with John living at the house with the masked man and Barsad.  It had taken a couple of days, but he had finally learned the larger man’s name: Bane.  It sounded familiar, like a name that was a word, but he couldn’t remember what it meant, if it was.  Many changes had taken place since he had first arrived, some subtle and others more pronounced.  The last few mornings had been spent with the two men having just arrived back at the house shortly after he woke, John helping unload or arrange any bags they had returned with when they would allow it, wanting to stay useful.  The original pile of duffle bags had disappeared during one of his sleeps, and John had no idea where it all had gone. 

The first couple of days he stayed inside, even though it was made clear they weren’t going to keep him from going outside if he wanted to.  Evenings they ate; well, he and Barsad ate, and at times Bane would leave them alone for a little while; John suspected he took that time to eat by himself, possibly to keep John from seeing when he took the mask off, though he still didn’t know why, if that was it.  It was mostly quiet, in general, unless John managed to get Barsad to tell him a story before nightfall, which the man was quite imaginative with the two times he had gotten one out of him. 

During the day, he explored the house, which actually had three stories and an attic space at the very top.  He hadn’t been all the way up there, not because he wasn’t curious, but because he couldn’t reach the rope that pulled down the access stairs and neither man had offered to do it for him.  The rooms upstairs were even less finished-looking than the first floor, with walls still showing the wooden beams and doors missing from most of the entryways, but those things just made it more fun to explore.  He stayed up there during the afternoons while the two men took turns sleeping.  It reminded John of soldiers at war, how one would rest while the other stayed awake to stand watch in case anything bad happened.  They hadn’t been asleep at the same time once yet, that he saw, and it was a lot quieter when it was Barsad that was resting. 

The biggest adjustment, most prominent due to the fact it was winter, was that by the third night he stayed there the house had somehow gained electricity.  Furnishings were still extremely sparse, but a couple of over-head lights in certain rooms now worked, though they rarely used them even so.  Aside from light, the building had heating through the pipe system and radiators.  Though no longer absolutely necessary to keep freezing at bay, Bane and Barsad both continued to tend to the fireplace and keep at least a low fire burning constantly.  From what John had seen, it never truly went out; even if he thought the coals looked black and grey, all it took was a bit of stoking, some air and more wood to get it going once more.  A heated house also meant they could have hot water, and John had been able to get his first shower since running away.  It had felt amazing to be warm all over, finally.

If John had been worried about where they would keep the food that he and Barsad had stolen from the foster house, he shouldn’t have worried long.  Before they had even ridden back to the house, a refrigerator had been placed in the still mostly-bare kitchen.  He didn’t know how it had gotten there and set up during their short trip, but after that it seemed every time he went to sleep, something else changed or was added around him.  A coffee maker came soon after, and John learned how much Barsad enjoyed it in the mornings, even if he looked like he probably wouldn’t admit it.  He let John try a sip of his cup once, but it was far too bitter for his tastes, and the face he had made had gotten the loudest laugh he had heard from the man yet.  While the taste may have been strange, however, he really liked waking up to the smell.  Though he still had no idea how, when, or what Bane ate or drank.  He considered asked whenever he thought on it, but didn’t want to be rude.

Another thing he noticed, less about the house and more about his own experience, was that he was sleeping better.  He still had nightmares, he always did, but he slept through the nights, every one of them.  It was nice, but he was starting to wonder about how he was falling asleep so fast and so deeply; it had never been normal for him to just pass out in the middle of a cup of milk or water, not remembering climbing or getting tucked into his bedroll, waking up a bit fuzzy headed.  So he started paying attention to the details around bedtime the next night, what happened, what he did.  He watched Barsad.  Bane wasn’t in the room, he had to go talk with some people, Barsad had told him, clearly holding back information he thought John shouldn’t know like adults tended to do.  The two men had shared a look before Bane had left, and Barsad had nodded like he agreed with something, though nothing had been said.  It was shortly after that that Barsad had offered to fix John a glass of milk before he slept.  When John offered to get it himself, the man had paused, then repeated that he would do it for him.  John’s suspicion already awake, he focused on that piece of the puzzle.

 “Why do I get sleepy after drinking the milk?” he finally asked, half bluffing as he wasn’t sure yet that that was it, just testing to see if there was a reaction in the man’s face.  It was worth a shot, even if he was wrong.

He was rewarded as the man’s pause turned into a full-stop.  Barsad turned to face John more fully, fixing him with an appraising look.  “What do you mean, little one?” he asked, his voice steady and even. 

 “I get super-sleepy every night after I drink,” he continued, going with this angle after seeing the reaction.  “Why?”

Barsad watched him quietly for several moments before he smiled.  “You noticed?” he simply asked.  And when John nodded, he added, “I am impressed.”

 “So… why?  What do you make me sleep?”  It hadn’t been admitted entirely yet, but he was pretty sure that’s what was happening.  “I go to sleep eventually on my own, everyone does…”

 “Yes,” Barsad agreed, “but most do not stay down for the entire night without fail.  It is safer this way.” 

 “Safer?”  He got only a breathed out affirmation.  “Safer how?  For who?”

“For you, little one, of course,” Barsad assured him softly, sitting down on one of the chairs that had arrived the previous day.  “Our work is completed mostly at night when it can remain unseen, and it is best if you are unable to follow.”

John’s spine straightened with indignation.  “I can handle myself, you know,” he argued, voice snapping a bit more sharply than he might have preferred.  It was true, though; he’d been in a bunch of scrapes and always managed to get himself out of them, though how he fared afterward was always a gamble. 

Barsad smiled after a moment, maybe fondly, but not with the same kind of mocking or indulging that most people had whenever he said anything about being strong or able to do things on his own.  “I’m sure you can,” he stated, and John could tell that much at least was sincere.  “However, it’s not always so simple as a brave young boy who can take care of himself.”  Holding up a finger to ask for a moment, Barsad stripped his shirt layers up over his head, revealing a heavily scared chest that was complemented by many dotted and lacing scars along his shoulders and arms, as well. 

John knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it.  He had never seen anything like it before in his life.  His dad had had a long scar along his side that he said he had gotten from work, though John knew it had really been a knife fight, and it was the only one he’d had.  That in mind, he couldn’t help wondering where and how Barsad had gotten his, and so many.  Stepping forward before he realized he was, he eyed each one, imagining a story for each shiny line, each star-shaped spot.  “That’s a lot,” he spoke before thinking.  It sounded so dumb, the kind of thing a dumb kid would say, and he was done being a dumb kid.  “…I mean… How did you get all of them?”  He admitted it wasn’t much better, but he was too curious not to try. 

Barsad smiled again, though this time it was icy cold.  Just the look of it gave a chill down John’s back, but he stepped closer anyway when the man beckoned him forward.  “This,” he said, pointing to a more faded looking starburst ring on his shoulder.  “This I got when I was a lad, not sixteen I think.  Was a street fight that had nothing to do with me, but I was walking by.”

 “What did it?” John asked, staring at the pattern of scar tissue and reaching out to touch it lightly when Barsad made a motion that he was allowed. 

 “Actually, it should have been a knife, but by luck it was the lit end of a shop owner’s cigar.  He thought I was part of the brawl, and decided I needed a nudge off his stoop.”  Barsad shrugged, not seeming bothered by the memory; though John guessed he had plenty of worse ones to think about, instead. 

 “That was a burn?” John asked, curious about how different the scars looked from one another.

 “Aye,” he breathed, and lifted up his arm to show his side and part of his back.  There was a large pattern of skin that looked creased, stapled over almost, stretching along his ribs.  “This, a few weeks later,” he continued calmly, sounding like a story teller in a library, “in another city, where there was political unrest.”  He looked at John, then, to see if he understood.  “The people in charge were corrupt, and so were those who wanted them out of their jobs.  So there was a war between the groups.  They believed different things,” he added.  “Religion, ideals; it got very messy.” 

John had sat down beside him to listen, fascinated as much by the man’s honest, non-demeaning tone as he was by the scars and their stories.  Barsad pointed to another distinct design.  “This was from a pipe bomb that went off near me; some of the shrapnel—that’s what the pieces that fly out are called—hit my side after the blast tore my skin.”  With a twinkle to his eye, knowing, it seemed, that this kind of thing was often gold to a young kid, he finished, “Some of the pieces will remain inside forever.”

John’s eyes widened slightly, his attention focused wholly on the story.  “They’re still stuck in there?”

Barsad nodded.  “Sometimes removing them is worse than leaving them in.”  He went on to describe knife-fight wounds, gun shots, a few more shrapnel-involved portions, and the more mundane, accidental marks from climbing barbed-wire fences.  Some of the stories were almost unbelievable, and John wondered if any of it was made up, but the scars themselves were very real, and their explanations sounded so sincere that he couldn’t help taking the whole lot of it for truth.

 “Does he have other scars, too?” he asked before he could debate over whether or not he should.

 “Bane?”

 “Yeah… I mean,” he paused, but Barsad had not indicated that he shouldn’t be asking or hearing about him, too, so he went on.  “I know he’s got that big one, the one on his back, and then he has the mask…”

Barsad simply nodded, holding a hand up to stop him from babbling nervously.  “He does, little one.  But his story is his own; I cannot tell it for him.”

 “Oh… would he tell me if I asked him?  I know he doesn’t talk too much…”

 “He does when he needs to,” Barsad agreed.  “It’s a part of him, the story, and so he might not tell it.”  John could understand that; he didn’t like having to retell about finding his dad, but kids always asked him as soon as they found out what he’d seen, like he was some side-show freak.  Yeah, maybe he wouldn’t ask about the scar or the mask.  It wouldn’t seem fair.  

Something nagged at the back of his mind, something about fairness… And it clicked.  “So wait,” he spoke out as soon as he remembered why he had started the conversation to begin with.  “You’ve been drugging me to keep me asleep.”  He didn’t think that part of the discussion should have been left behind, despite how in wonder he was at the two men and their experiences.  “That’s not normal, you know.”

Barsad’s eyebrows rose up at that.  “Normal?”

 “Yeah, people don’t just drug kids to keep them safe…”

He’d meant it seriously, but for some reason the statement amused Barsad.  After a moment, he returned, “Though I am certain you’re capable of defending yourself, when needed, and getting yourself out of trouble, you are still a child, and—”

John cut him off there.  “I’m SICK of being told I can’t do anything because I’m a kid!” he shouted.  “I’m _not_ just a kid, I don’t care how old I am, and there’s more to life than just how OLD everyone is—” his last words were muffled as a large hand gently clasped over his mouth to shut him up.  He glared a bit, but stopped shouting, resisting the immediate urge to bite at the hand.

 “It’s not about ability,” he was quietly corrected.  “You are a child, and as that, you deserve to remain a child until you are one no more.”

John blinked, brow furrowing in confusion.  Anyone was a child until they weren’t anymore.  That was called growing up, getting older, and it was no secret, and didn’t change any of the argument.  He would have said as much out loud if the man’s calloused hand wasn’t still fixed to his face, forestalling any rebuttals in return. 

 “There is an innocence in childhood,” Barsad continued, still holding John’s mouth but looking off kind of into space.  “It is lost in the adult world, often far too early.  Those who are witness to or experience… tragedy… when they are small lose it faster, more completely.  You, little one,” the eyes came back into focus, fixing steadily on John’s.  “You still have some left.  We would like to see it remain as it is for a while, even though the flame that burns inside of you might still turn to ash.”  The hand left his mouth.  “There are parts of this city, as with the rest of the world, that kill such innocence, destroy it utterly.  And we inhabit them.”

John shuddered, the skin on his arms raised with goose bumps.  “But you’re good,” he argued, wanting it to be true more than he even believed it.  “You’re good, I know it… I trust you.”

A small smile accompanied the nod he received.  “Yes, you do… it is a part of that spark you still carry.”

 “So you’re saying I shouldn’t trust you?”  His stomach hurt.  It was flip-flopping too much with all they had talked about.

 “I am saying that most people know not to; but we would never hurt you.”

 “I know,” he spoke quickly, nodding.  “I know you wouldn’t.  You’d have done it by now.”

 “We have drugged you.”  The reminder was casual, rolled out as if it were nothing.  But it was absolutely valid.  Yet, drugging him hadn’t actually _hurt_ him, just controlled him, really.  And even that only while he would have been sleeping either way.

He sighed in frustration.  “Do you want me to trust you, or not?” he asked sharply, needing to know, needing to know if he should still stay there, even knowing that there was nowhere else for him to go.  Finding anyone else he could trust even a little bit was a laughable idea, especially in the city.  If he could stay, he had something good here, already better in a half-drugged week than any of the foster homes he had been shuffled to in the past couple of years.  He needed to be able to stay.

 “We want you to have what you need, and what you deserve,” Barsad answered, annoyingly avoiding the direct yes-or-no answer he was supposed to have given.

 “That doesn’t answer my question,” he pointed out, feeling the reservoir of frustration and anger flaring beneath the surface of his mind.  It was strong, and he could feel it, but he clenched his teeth tightly against it, breathing slowly, keeping control.  He wouldn’t let the red come, not now, here, not when he had come to like Barsad.  He liked Bane, too, but he hadn’t spent nearly as much time with the other man.  He didn’t know his pains, hadn’t talked through his scars.  And those things could come, maybe, if he could only stay. 

 “It’s true,” Barsad spoke softly.  “It would be a long story, but there is something in your eyes that is familiar, perhaps even more to Bane than to myself—no, most assuredly more to him—and it is this _something_ that we wish to see protected.” 

 “Yeah, you said it already; childish innocence.”  He couldn’t help an eye roll.

 “That, yes, but not only that.  There is also that fire in you, strongly burning.  It could grow larger, still, if fed, but could smother if not treated correctly.”  A fire?  John’s eyes were drawn to the hearth as Barsad spoke, eyeing the lower-burning coals that they left to slowly smolder during the day, awaiting the last stoking before John typically went—or, more accurately, was put—to sleep for the night.

 “Like too much wood on top?” he asked, unsure what the metaphor was, but feeling compelled to add at least to one side of it.

 “Yes, something like that,” Barsad agreed, pants rustling as he rose to his feet in order to feed the actual fire, stoking the coals, using the blower to get the ones that had gone dark to flash brightly, crackling their heat against the newly-added fuel.

 “And you think letting me see what you do would put the fire out?”  He thought maybe he was starting to get the idea of it.  “You know, it’s not like I don’t see the guns, right?  The bullets?  And the bags of—” He shut up quickly, but the damage had been done.  There was a silence behind him as he knew Barsad was thinking over what he’d just said, and what he must have seen.  John just pursed his lips, waiting for the man’s reaction.  It wasn’t Barsad’s that he first received, however.

 “The bags of what?” questioned the heavy, resonating voice from the hallway opening, hissing just slightly as the words were breathed out.


	7. Chapter 7

John whirled around where he sat, gasping, startled.  Bane stood there, thick, wool-lined coat giving even more bulk to his sizable frame.  His hands hung off his wide waist belt as he eyed John, patiently demanding an answer.  Swallowing down the nerves that had crept up suddenly into his throat, and willing his stomach not to be sick over flopping once again, John stood back up, unable to meet those piercing eyes directly.  He let his own go slightly out of focus to keep from getting drawn too deeply into the other’s.  “I… saw the bags, in here, before,” he lamely began, gaining no reaction at all from either of them.  Clearing his throat, he continued, “When I woke up, no one was here, and I was curious… so I looked.”  Risking a glance up into his eyes, he focused on Bane, who was regarding him as if he had just found him for the first time.

 “And what did you see?”

 “Money,” John answered, feeling a bit of a weight lift off his chest just at finally admitting what he had done.  He didn’t like secrets.  “A lot, a lot of money.”

 “I see,” Bane nodded almost imperceptibly.  “And you wish to know where it came from?”  Bane had a way of making questions sound like statements… like he knew the answers already, but he wanted to hear John say them on his own, to admit them anyway.  It made him feel very much a child in his presence.

He nodded in reply, his insides shaking so violently with nerves that he thought for sure it must be visible on the outside somehow.  “I don’t care, really… I mean, I wanna know, but I’m not gonna judge you for it… or think bad things about you… I just wanna know.” 

 “Put on your coat,” Bane ordered before turning his back, walking down the hall with resounding footsteps.  John barely had time to wonder how he had walked inside without being noticed before he blinked, looking up sharply at Barsad.

 “…I get to go?” he asked, wide-eyed and in need of clarification before he got his hopes up any higher than they were already soaring.  When he got a simple affirming nod from Barsad, he had to bite back hard against a shout of excitement as he ran out of the room toward the hook by the kitchen on which he kept his coat.  Grabbing it up, he was out the door only moments before Barsad, rushing for the pair of bikes he knew now to expect against the back of the building.

Bane had already donned his own dark red helmet, clicking it into place as he straddled the larger of the two bikes.  The sturdy lock on the rear door clicked shut behind Barsad, and John was tossed the black helmet he had worn earlier that week.  It only got stuck a little bit as he worked it on, breath coming in adrenaline-pumped pants as he stumbled over close to the bike.  Barsad didn’t wait for him to bump into him this time, but grabbed him up almost immediately to carry him over and set him on the back of the bike’s seat.

 “You will be completely silent,” Barsad ordered quietly, firmly, a trace of a threat to his tone.  John knew it wasn’t threat of punishment, however; it was a threat of danger, like ‘don’t touch the stove—it’s hot,’ or ‘don’t play with that stick, you’ll poke your eye out.’  John nodded his agreement, wiggling to get his bottom solidly on his portion of the seat as Barsad climbed onto the front, kick-starting the bike just after Bane started his own.  Holding tightly around the man’s waist, John couldn’t help an eager grin from spreading across his face; they couldn’t see it, anyway, for the helmet. 

The ride was much longer than the five-minute jaunt to his old foster parents’ house, feeling like forever with each minute spent riding being a minute more he had to wait before he knew what exactly his two pirate-like roommates did while he slept the night away.  He wasn’t even tired, not one bit; he was far too excited to be tired.  Feeling the bike’s engine slow as the vibration eased, he started to pull a hand away from Barsad to flip up the helmet’s visor in order to see where they were headed, but the man’s strong hand once again closed over John’s, holding them fast where they were, a silent order to hold on until they actually stopped.  Obedience held his hands firm, but impatience made his fingers fidget in their holds.  Thankfully, it was not much farther before the bikes were quieted as they swooped a turn, rolling just a bit more before Barsad steadied it with his feet on the ground, killing the engine and letting a noisy silence fill the space where a deafening motor-echo had been just the moment before.

Helmet slid off of his head, John looked around eagerly.  They were in a dark, seedy-looking and rather filthy alleyway, towards center-city, he guessed, from the mix of neon and fluorescent lights he could see in shop windows through the openings at either end of the alley.  Hearing the occasional siren _thwerp_ and _whoop_ did nothing to assure him of where they were in the city, as those could be heard just about anywhere you went.  About to open his mouth to ask what they were going to do here, John clenched his teeth as he remembered that he was supposed to remain silent for this trip; the last thing he wanted was to prove that he couldn’t handle being brought along on his very first time out with them.  Instead, he watched as Bane carefully worked his helmet off over the mask, the task looking practiced but still rather difficult as he finally slid it clear, hanging it on the back of the cycle. 

 “Our meeting is a block from here,” he informed, “but we will not be taking the streets.”  That part piqued John’s interest even further as he wondered how exactly they were going to get a block away without leaving the alley to go out into the street area.  It made sense, he admitted, not to go near the streets even at night if you had a super-recognizable mask and tended to get into trouble, but how, then, did one get around?

The answer should have been obvious; he’d read enough _Spiderman_ comics in his day, even if he’d never owned one.  Bane ushered him towards the side wall of the building framing the alley, reaching up and tugging down the bottom ladder to a rattling, dirty fire escape that ran up the side of the brick building.  So _that_ was how they travelled without using the streets.  Barsad climbed up first, probably as a lookout, John thought as he was lifted by his waist by Bane’s even larger hands and gripped the ladder firmly, looking up so he could follow Barsad.  Though he thought he was moving pretty fast, he was still falling behind the man’s pace and was making more of a racket than either of them combined.  Being a stealthy pirate was harder than it looked, apparently. 

Managing to not look down the entire way up the maze of ladders, platforms and stairs, John breathed a “wow” as they reached the rooftop, five stories above where they had parked the bikes beside a set of dumpsters.  Both looked like toys when he glanced over the ledge of the wall.

 “Remember,” Barsad warned, tugging him away from the edge to look him in the eyes.  “Silent.”

John gulped and nodded, mouthing that he was sorry, that he’d listen and be good.  Receiving a nod of approval, his eyes brightened again and he took Barsad’s hand as it was offered for carefully making their way across the rooftop.  Movies had led John to believe that all city rooftops were flat, open spaces that you could just run across without having to worry about catching the two of your shoe, your elbow, or your head on anything just randomly jutting out or sticking up from the floor it created.  Movies were wrong.  There were all manner of things littering the roof; broken bottles, bits of piping, pop-up glass windows that John barely saw coming before he was jerked out of the way of them, exits for ventilation systems, antennas, and the access door to the emergency stairs that looked far more like a small outhouse in the darkness than a door to the inside. 

Once they had navigated the first roof, they came to a wall, Bane making a motion that they were going to go across the four foot gap onto the _next_ roof.  His heart pounded, leaping into his throat as he watched Barsad make the jump from the first ledge to the second, landing with the grace of a cat, not sliding an inch either way.  John gnawed at his lower lip, not having practiced any kind of roof jumping and being quite certain, for all the adventuring he had hoped to do, that he could not make the same kind of leap and expect to land on the roof instead of bouncing off the outside edge of the far wall and becoming a human pong ball as he fell five stories to the ground below.  Sucking in a breath and just about to break the order to stay quiet, he gasped again as he was plucked from his feet, lifted in the air at the edge of the wall.  Was Bane _seriously_ going to jump across while holding him??

No, of course not.  He was going to throw him across to Barsad. 

And that’s exactly what he did as John found himself propelled through the air, flying across the gap that extended now impossibly far below him once there was only air between him and pavement.  He landed in Barsad’s arms, however, roughly but safely, his momentum quickly quelled as the man used his own weight to keep them from toppling with the speed at which Bane had tossed him over.  The harsh crunch of boots against gravel and glass bits caught his attention as Bane landed beside them, not quite as gracefully as Barsad, and much louder, but steady and balanced even so.  He could only assume they performed these stunts on a far too regular basis.  It was amazing to watch.  The second rooftop proved much longer than the first had been, and they had only one more jump, this time to a roof several feet lower and thus a bit easier to navigate across the gap.  John was prepared for the throw, and kept his limbs more steady with less flailing as he sailed over the gap to where Barsad waited to catch him solidly.

Once across, Bane paused to check a small hand-held instrument that had been tucked into a pocket of his pants.  It beeped quietly, more rapidly as they approached the other side of the rooftop, Barsad making sure John didn’t trip again even as Bane made his way almost without even seeming to pay attention to where he was going, where they were, or anything but the softly glowing screen he held in his hand.  When they had reached the wall, Bane gave a nod to Barsad, and the three climbed down the first two staircases of another dirty, and inexplicably sticky, fire escape.  Barsad paused at the second landing, stopping John’s progress. 

 “You will wait here,” he breathed quietly, so low that John had to strain to hear him above even the more faint noise of nighttime traffic outside the alley’s sheltering walls.  “You will be able to see, and we will collect you when it is finished, understand?”  John nodded, and he was pushed gently down to sit against the corner of the box the landing formed, wedged half against the wall of the building and half against the fence-like guardrail of the fire escape. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning:** Car-accident flashback.

Pulling his knees up against his chest so he pressed closer to the wall, he watched as the men made their way almost silently down the remainder of the stairs.  Barsad made no sound, of course, and Bane only made a muffled thunk that his weight could not hide with each step.  By the time they reached street level, a dark SUV was turning into the back end of the alley that emptied onto a much less busy side street.  John carefully sat up a bit more, watching curiously as the headlights went out as the car approached.  Bane and Barsad stood steady below him, to the side just enough that he didn’t have to look through the grate at his feet to keep them in view.  The SUV ground to a stop, engine silenced and doors—all of them, he noted—clicking open and slamming shut.  For the caution of turning off the headlights and the slow approach, John thought the door-slamming seemed rather reckless if they were all trying to stay quiet or secretive.

Their voices were quieter, at least, low enough that he couldn’t quite make out what was being said, but it seemed like greetings were being exchanged.  Bane’s stance was relaxed, as relaxed as he probably ever was, but even from four stories up, John could tell that Barsad was tense.  In fact, he had not seen him so on edge in any of the time he had spent with him.  His body stood rigidly, fingers twitching, and his head swiveled as he darted his gaze around, constantly on guard even though John couldn’t see anyone else besides the four that had been in the SUV.  No one was on any of the other fire escapes, the rooftops had been empty when they’d been up on top of them, and there were only a couple of dumpsters in the alley—hardly enough for people to hide behind.  John smiled to himself as he thought maybe those were the kinds of things Barsad thought about when he had to use the sniper rifle.  Snipers were usually in high-up places to be able to see everything.

Something caught his eye as he was looking over the surrounding walls, a glint from one of the small window ledges just down from where he sat.  Leaning forward and squinting his eyes, he thought he could just make out the long barrel of someone _else’s_ sniper rifle peeking out, if he wasn’t imagining it.  Rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his eyes and looking again, he still saw it.  He followed the angle of the barrel, and realized with a sick feeling in his stomach that it was aimed at Barsad and Bane.  Immediately fighting the urge to just shout out, knowing he might only get himself shot at for his trouble, his mind reeled as he tried to think of how he could warn them without being too obvious. 

Then it came to him; he heard Barsad’s voice in his head, the lilt of his singing when he settled John into his bedroll each night, and the softly whispered “go to sleep, little bird.”  That was perfect.  Pulling in a deep breath, he let out what he hoped sounded more like bird calls and less like him simply whistling, which, after all, he was.

Barsad’s head immediately snapped up, and John quickly pointed towards the rifle just in case he looked his way.  It seemed he did, and then in the direction John had pointed, and then his hand brushed Bane’s arm as the man was speaking with one of the SUV guys.  The two shared a quiet word, probably unable to be heard even if John had been right there next to them, and suddenly everyone was tense, looking ready to start a fight right then.  There was a heart-pounding pause as John watched the men, and then a loud pop as Barsad, in one fluid motion almost too fast for John to even catch, had pulled the smaller gun from his waistband and shot in the direction of the sniper with a flick of his arm that reminded John much more of how a person launched a frisbee rather than raising a gun to shoot accurately. 

John’s eyes went wide as the black-clothed body tumbled from the ledge, gun clattering to the ground as the body smacked down beside it.  From the way the man’s limbs were twisted, and what looked, even in the dark, even four stories up, like a puddle starting to form out from him, John knew the man was dead.  He couldn’t help but hold himself partially responsible for that, but knew in his heart that, had he not spoken up, the man could easily have hurt or maybe even killed his friends.  That in mind, he didn’t even feel sick over the sight like he’d thought he would; it was just what was necessary. 

What wasn’t necessary was the shower of pops and echoing booms that followed Barsad’s.  There were more men in the windows, and a large van was careening into the alley as the four his friends had been talking to climbed hastily back into their SUV and screeched out the other end, making it out to the side street just before a set of police cars blocked off the opening.  John stood against the wall, fear seizing up in his belly.  He couldn’t watch his friends get shot, he just couldn’t.  That couldn’t happen.

_Bang.  Bang-bang._

Two more bodies fell to the ground, thudding as their cries ceased on impact.  Bane was fighting off a team of what looked like SWAT men while Barsad quickly cleared the walls.  They were quick, almost too quick for John’s eyes to follow in the dim light of the alley.  Their speed, their moves, they looked more like ninjas in the dark than the pirates he’d thought of them as until then.  Maybe they were both.

A loud whistle accompanied a shout of “GO!” and John knew it had been meant for him even if neither of them looked his way.  He turned quickly, heart racing and making his movements less than graceful as he worked to scramble up the steps towards the roof.  Without them, he knew this roof would be the end of his “escape” plan, but he couldn’t control that right then.  He’d been told to get away, and he needed to listen.  There was no way he could help them, not against those men and their guns. 

Reaching the top wall, he pulled himself up and over the ledge, tumbling to the floor the roof provided, palms scratching roughly on its surface, legs and arms sprawling in a manner he was glad neither of his friends could see.  Just in case he was followed, he quickly scuttled over to the lower-set access doors the building featured, huddling his body tight against the concrete “wall” it created and listening for any sign that it was safe once more.  The rough concrete bit into his back even through his jacket, and his breathing was coming in rapid pants.

More pops followed, and soon the deafening chorus of multiple police cars playing their sirens at once though not in tune; the sound hurt John’s head, and he put his hands over his ears snugly, eyes closed.  This just needed to be over, right then, he told himself.  He balled up close to the doors, making himself as small as possible, blocking the rest of the world out as much as he could.  Nearly screaming at the sudden touch, his mouth was covered as he was lifted into a pair of strong arms.  Barsad’s, he knew once he was in them, even though he’d never been held like that, he just knew.  The second he was lifted, he was carried impossibly fast toward the edge of the next roof.  Frightened, John closed his eyes tightly, only sensing when he flew over the gap by the feeling of weightlessness and the force of Barsad’s leap as John clung tightly to the man’s chest and waist with all four limbs like a monkey.

They landed solidly after the first jump, John having no idea how the man had managed to jump slightly upward across the space, and jostled quite a bit as they somehow hit the other roof.  Barsad grunted with the effort of keeping himself steady with John’s added weight as he ran for the next edge.  He was aware of a second set of running footsteps, and was relieved in the midst of his fear and adrenaline to know that that meant Bane was safely following—or leading, he couldn’t tell, everything was sound and movement.  Another moment of weightlessness followed, but this time there was no steady, solid landing.  The world tumbled and inverted sharply, and John had to clench his teeth tightly to keep from crying out in fear as both of their bodies tumbled harshly onto the last rooftop, Barsad’s breath knocked out by John’s body jamming against his chest as the man managed not to squash him when they hit, having managed to push his knees out of the way of the impact.  A large hand cradled his head as their more open tumble turned to a skidding roll, keeping him from getting scraped up by the gritty floor. 

When they finally came to a stop, Barsad wasn’t getting up as quickly as he had been running, but they were suddenly righted, John’s frightened peek revealing that Bane had grabbed up Barsad’s jacket and hoisted him to his feet.  Barsad gave him a grateful nod, sparing not a moment for a thank you or anything else that might have taken time or attention away from their escape.  Even knowing he had to let go, it took effort to release his hands from their positions clutching fistfuls of Barsad’s clothing as Bane pried him off his chest, setting him down before the ladder the larger man was already starting down.  Barsad gave John a nudge from behind. 

“Quickly,” he breathed, sounding quite winded as John climbed shakily over the edge and, as carefully as he could, began his descent down the ladder towards the first landing that Bane had already passed.  The other man was quick to follow, and John found himself feeling safer just knowing that they were on either side of him for the trip downwards, even as his foot missed a rung and he was suddenly airborne.  Unable to help a panicked cry from erupting out of his lungs, his impact into Bane’s arms thrust what air had been inside of him out, the man’s huge hand covering his mouth along with half his face as he silenced him, holding him firmly.  John struggled instinctively before working to calm himself as he was handed back to Barsad who had dropped the last few feet to the ground—which John realized they were at least finally back onto. 

Even as he muckled onto the man’s frame, Barsad swung him around so that he rode his back instead of clinging to his front, rushing back to the cycles.  In an instant they were started and moving, rocketing out of the alley and into the main street that was littered with police cars that had joined the cacophonous scene.  The sound of them, the swirl of their lights combining was enough to make John’s head swim and ache as he clenched his hands into the fabric covering Barsad’s stomach.  Everything inside of him called for him to scream, to cry, to do anything but stay silent, but somehow he squeezed himself shut and shook as the bike leaned dangerously to either side as they rode through the crowded street and away from the scene.  Sirens followed them, chasing their path as they zipped through the streets, met with loud honking horns and the screeching of car tires as other drivers tried to avoid getting caught up in a collision. 

John’s stomach lurched threateningly for each screech and squeal that met his ears, and then he heard it, the sick thud and crunch of one car meeting another.  Everything turned to slow-motion as his mind flashed back to that day he barely remembered when awake; being suddenly rent in two, or so it felt, his middle slammed full-force into the unforgiving seatbelt that kept him from being thrown forward between the seats and through the car’s windshield as the metal walls, once solid, caved and buckled around him, toward him.  The burn of it was so vivid in his memory that he could feel it spread across his stomach even as he held onto the waist in front of him.  But his mother was in front of him, then, arms thrown up in the air in an instinctive protection against the glass that exploded in front of his vision, seeming to come from everywhere all at once, striking his face, his hands, tearing through his hair as everything capsized, tossed, slammed violently downward and then rolled again, ending by some miracle right-side up.  His screams met his ears, but they were foreign to him, someone else’s, not his own, and distant.  Everything was blurry, fuzzy and broken, and suddenly nothing was moving; no one was moving.

He heard the scream, still, but it was closer, more familiar, and then there was a sharp slap to his face that snapped his world back into place, evaporating the yell still blazing in his lungs.

The bikes had stopped, pulled off on the side of the road by the shell of an old warehouse, no houses in sight.  They must have lost the chasing police cars enough to pause, though it took a few moments for the rest of reality to come crashing back in on him—the meeting, the gunshots, the running, the impacts and the falling, the violent ride.  It came all at once, slamming together and rushing over him so brutally that he pitched forward and emptied his bruised-feeling stomach all over the cracked pavement. 

Twice. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning:** Nightmares

It was over; he knew it was over. 

But it wasn’t over. 

The world was full of screeching, screams, broken glass, echoing gunshots and running feet.  Shadows lurked in his vision, sparked with sudden flares and flashes as ear-splitting pops ripped past his head.  Wind raked his eyes, rippling past his nose and mouth as bullets flew in front of his face, narrowly missing it.  He ran.  He ran so far, so long, that he could hardly feel his legs anymore for the force of it.  He ran through the city’s alleyways, somehow never arriving at a main street, never leaving the tall, foreboding walls of the multi-storied buildings.  At first he ran behind his friends as they led him away, but they evaporated after only a few alleys, turning to smoke and mist that shrouded the finer details of his surroundings, hiding rats scurrying across his path until their claw-tipped feet were dancing over his own, now bare. 

Then suddenly there were no cars, no alleys, no rats, nothing, just weightlessness; nothing to see no matter in which direction he turned.  Trying to swim through the air got him nowhere, until there was a boom, but he didn’t hear it, only felt it, rippling, tearing through him with a horrible vibration, a blast of force that knocked him back, back, and back.  He was falling, fast, tumbling, the empty world careening this way and that, too quickly for him to even understand which way was any way.

He was screaming.  He knew he was screaming because his lungs burned with the violence of it and his throat ached as it tore through, but there was no sound, only a silence that was as deafening on his ears as the loudest siren he had ever heard.  Yet the scream wouldn’t stop, even when he ran out of breath, his head splitting.  And still he fell, no end in sight.

Until suddenly there was; black pavement appeared through thick fog, not far away, not in the distance, not giving him any time to prepare for the inevitable impact.  John felt his body slam down in that moment, the same moment he saw it coming.  He had no more breath in his lungs to be pushed out, but instead felt his body break, flatten, pool out from itself before shattering into a million pieces, yet he remained on the ground.  An all encompassing shade came over him, blocking out the fog, the pavement, the remains of the body still broken irreparably apart.  Thick, black hands opened, reaching to devour what was left of his soul.

His throat burned once again as the earlier scream revisited his ears.  It was real this time, tangible, and he choked on it.  Limbs returned and whole, he flailed, thrashing about even as strong, unyielding arms enveloped him, held him tightly, securely, as words of comfort whispered into his ears, as he was rocked against a firm, warm body.  Screams giving way to sobs as the specter at last faded from his vision, he sank deep into the protective hold, burying his face against the bare, wiry-haired chest.  Reality was steadily chasing away the darkness of the nightmare, leaving behind a high-crackling fire and the quiet, reassuring sounds of living beings’ breathing.  He was being held fast by Barsad, he knew then, cradled in his lap, his body sprawled from how it had been twisting and in motion of the dream’s effect.  It was not the same night after their escape, but more than one had been spent reliving it, affected by it.

 “Shh,” he could single out, now.  “It’s alright, my little bird, it’s just a dream, it’s alright.”  The words rolled from Barsad’s mouth in a cycle, repeating over and over as John began to regain control over his breathing.  They slowed as he did, until at last he lay limply draped across the man’s heated frame.  “There we are, Éinín,” he hummed next to John’s ear as he kissed his hair, “all over, now.”

John couldn’t stifle the whimper that wormed out of his stomach, slipping his arms around Barsad’s neck and hugging him tightly, desperately clinging to the feel of him.

 “It’s alright,” Barsad hushed as he rocked John again, tugging one of the extra blankets over from behind him and wrapping it tightly around John, cocooning him before he held him close again.  John wanted the contact, instead, needed to feel a _person_ beside him, but it was then he noticed that both Barsad, who had woken him and still held him, and Bane, standing behind them, were completely naked.  Brow furrowing in confusion, he started to try to form a question about it, but Barsad just continued rocking him, shushing him, and kissed the top of his head again, followed by a kiss to the furrow of his brow.  He felt so safe, so strong, that nothing else really mattered any more than that.  It couldn’t be that important to know right now.

 “…H-hold me ‘til I sleep?” he managed instead, looking up into Barsad’s glinting blue eyes with his own hopeful brown.

Barsad smiled in return, a softer smile than he had seen on him yet, and warm, so warm.  “Of course, my little one.”  Barsad cradled him so that he lay half on him and half on his own bedroll.  “Sleep.”

And he did. 

____________________

_Someone was in the house._

_But that couldn’t be right, could it?  The men had only been gone for a couple of hours, judging from how the fire still crackled, but John had the overwhelming sense that someone was there, even so._

He hadn’t followed them on a trip again since that first night.  Even if he had wanted to show he was brave enough, his stomach had violently tossed his dinner the next time they had discussed it.  They could use a lookout, he knew, but Bane had promised to find someone else to help; John’s memories were too strong for him to go through something like that again—at least for a while.  A month had passed since that night, and he was now allowed to go to sleep on his own, without the medicine.  He didn’t always stay out for the night, but he knew well enough to stay inside the house, safe, warm and dry.

A storm had moved in over the last couple of days, covering Gotham’s streets with snow as deep as John’s knees.  It must have been difficult to navigate snowy streets with the motorcycles, but their engines flared to life each night regardless.  Though he guessed they were the only option that they had at the moment; that is, unless they managed to hide a car in the back alley somehow.  That seemed very unlikely since John had been exploring that alley for the past week or so.  He’d finished with the house, not bored of it, but needing a new place to discover secrets, and the alley was full of them.  There was evidence of many people having lived around the houses before, despite the buildings being mostly unfinished, though it seemed like most of the items he found had been left behind a long time ago.  Maybe they had heard that pirates were moving in.

Now, though, it was nighttime, and he was alone in the house to sleep, but he wasn’t alone anymore.  There were no guns in reach or anywhere John could find them; Barsad had warned that, should anyone manage to get inside where he was, that person could most likely take the gun only to hurt John with it, instead, if they did not already have one of their own with them when they broke in.  He had, however, provided him with a small flip-knife just the previous week.  They had not had many lessons on how to properly use it, but John kept it with him always; he could feel its weight, starting to be familiar, in the pocket of his pants underneath the cover of his bedroll—just in case. 

John’s stomach tightened as he heard the tell-tale creak of the hallway’s floorboards.  It was light, and the sound died off almost as soon as it had begun, but he knew the sound too well to miss it.  That board was the most noisy, and it lay between the kitchen and the entrance to the front room in which he lay still, trying not to even breathe a sound.  Whoever was there was right outside, only a few feet away.  By then, they could probably see John on his bedroll, see the fire and know that there was no one else in the room with him.  It was too late to pull his knife and crouch in the corner.  He could hear the rush of blood through his ears as his heartbeat began to race out of control at the suspense of not knowing, at imagining all of the worst possible scenarios that could play out once the intruder decided to stop sneaking around and make himself known.

As it turned out, it wasn’t a “himself,” after all.

 “Who are you?” a smooth and decidedly female voice spoke out into the room.  It sounded suspicious, though not quite cautious.  The question was repeated when John remained frozen, too frightened to answer.  It was closer the second time.

 “John,” he replied, not seeing what it could hurt to give his real first time, and wanting to speak up before the woman got too close to him.

His eyes, still closed from nerves, were shaded suddenly before they were lit once more against the lids.  The woman had passed in front of him, between him and the fire’s soft light.  Clothing rustled softly as she sat down on the floor, eyes on him when he opened his own finally.  “Why are you here, John?” her voice rolled smoothly over the Rs she spoke, an affect that would have been pleasant any other time.  The question, however, was a bit strange to him.

He sat up then, a bit of indignation pushing back his fear, one hand resting on the leg in whose pocket the knife sat.  “I live here,” he answered, the obvious nature of the statement leaking into his tone.

 “Oh, is that so?” the stranger’s tone was suddenly lighter, almost playful.  She tilted her head as she regarded him, something in her manner reminding John of his friends, of home.

 “Yeah,” he heard himself snap.  “Who are YOU?”

The question earned him a cold smile that was so much like Barsad’s he let out a quiet gasp.  It was his turn to look suspicious, then.  “Do you know my two friends that also live here?” she asked, sounding much more friendly than she had before.

John nodded.

 “What are their names, hmm?” she pressed.  “I want to be sure they are my friends.”  The smile stayed, but her eyes did not light up with it.  No matter how much her expressions reminded him of Barsad, he didn’t get the feeling he could trust her, even if she really did know them.  And if she didn’t…

No, he wouldn’t be responsible for them getting hurt.  “If they’re your friends, then you know their names already,” he spoke evenly, keeping his face hard so he didn’t look scared.  “You say them first,” he ordered, “and then tell me yours.”

 “A clever boy,” she spoke softly.  After a moment of thought, she nodded.  “My friends are called Bane and Barsad; are those the names of your friends, too?”

John kept his face steady.  “Your name, first,” he demanded, eyes staring hard into hers to make sure he looked serious.

The woman nodded.  “Of course; I am Talia.  So, John,” she turned it back on him quickly.  “Now that you have my name and I have yours, will you tell me if my friends are the ones who are living here?  I wish to see them when they return, and they are expecting me.”

John’s eyes narrowed at that.  Neither Barsad nor Bane had told him someone would be coming, and though he still wasn’t told everything, an expected visitor seemed like something they would have mentioned.  “They are?... For real?”

She nodded.  “Yes. They did not know when I would arrive, but I had planned to join them here when they set up this house.”

Of course.  The third sleeping back he had taken over.  Why else would the two of them have an extra bedroll so readily available when they barely had supplies?  It clinched the idea in his mind.  She had to be telling the truth.  “It’s them; they’re the ones living here.  They let me stay when I ran—” he stopped, not really caring to tell his whole story to a stranger, even if that stranger was a friend of his friends.  “—When I needed a place to live,” he finished instead, looking away from her face.  She had eyes like Bane’s, deep and demanding answers.  If he kept staring into them, he’d have nothing left to hold back.

His plan didn’t work out very well, however, as thin, graceful fingers cupped his chin, turning his head to face hers again.  When he didn’t look up right away, those fingers roughly gripped his jaw, much more strongly than he would have expected from the look of her.  Her coat was bulky to keep out the cold, but from how it sat he could tell that it was large around her body; it bunched and bent in odd places, revealing a more slender frame sat beneath it.

 “When you speak to _me_ , John, I expect the truth from your lips.  Do you understand?”  Her voice was so exact, so precise, there really wasn’t a lot of room for misunderstanding.  John nodded as best he could in her grasp, and she continued, “So if you are telling me why you are here in this house, I expect the real story, hmm?  Try again.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Supporting Note:** There is a specific song that Barsad sings to John. I went looking for Irish lullabies, and happened upon the most perfect one ever by complete and total accident. It is now my favorite lullaby, and was the source for the fic's title. There is a [video of it being sung](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfEEXygFQVc), and the Irish and English lyrics can be found [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89in%C3%ADn%C3%AD).

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, John choked out a “Yes” in acknowledgment.  The eyes continued to bore into his, the hand only slightly relaxing, however, and he knew he had to explain right then.  So he did.  He started with his mom, even though he hadn’t really wanted to, and then his dad, the foster houses, fights, schools, and Saint Swithin’s, until he reached the day he had run away and ended up there at the house.  “There was a fire inside the house, and I needed to get warm… they let me stay.”

 “They found you in their home, a stowaway, and they just… let you stay?” her pause, accompanied by a flick of her other hand, made him think she didn’t believe him.  And maybe she didn’t.  It wasn’t a normal situation, really, but John hadn’t been normal for a long time.

 “Yeah, they let me stay.  We got my stuff and food and I live here now,” he responded indignantly.  If Barsad or Bane wanted him to go, that was one thing, but no stranger was going to make him feel bad enough to make him just up and leave.  He had nowhere to go, anyway; he needed to be able to live here.  Beyond that, he didn’t want to live away from them.  He liked them a lot, a lot-a lot.  A whole lot.  If he could pick new parents, he’d pick them.  They could just both be his dads; some kids had two dads, anyway, so it wasn’t even that crazy of an idea.  Maybe he could ask them about it when they got home.

The pressure on his jaw finally eased and left, and Talia made a thinking type sound through her nose as she regarded him.  “I suppose they can keep you,” she announced after several moments.  John was bewildered by the statement, the idea that she was acting like a parent whose child had found a stray dog and begged to be allowed to take it home to stay.  “Do not tell them when they return, however.”  She held up a finger in warning.  “It would not do for this to be too easy on them when they have deviated from their plans.”

He tilted his head curiously at that, but she didn’t offer any more information on what those plans might be.  He knew a little about what they did from day to day, but wasn’t aware of some overall plan or job that they had to fulfill.  And there was also the authority with which she spoke to be considered.  She really did sound as if she were their parent, or at least in charge of them, somehow.  But John had never in his life seen someone as in-charge as Bane.  Waiting would be hard, but it could really only be proved one way or the other when the men came back home for the day.

Just as he was about to say something, anything that could possibly fill up the silence that had lasted several moments, the woman rose to her feet, walking over to the fireplace, expertly stoking and bringing it back to flaring life in moments.  The room was lit a warm orange in its glow, and John now could make out a long, thick braid of hair hanging down her back.  It was longer than any he had ever seen.  She had shrugged off her bulky coat before tending to the fire, having tossed it in the general direction of Barsad and Bane’s bedrolls, and in the light of the flames he could see the more snug-fitting clothing that draped her body. 

Once the fire burned strongly once again, Talia turned to look down at him.  “It is good that you did not try to use that knife,” she spoke quietly, knowingly.  “It would not have helped you.”  _How did—._   John did not even finish his thought.  If she were anything like the two, he really could not question how she could do anything.  “For now, you should sleep,” she suggested, peering out the windows before sinking down against the wall to sit.  “I will keep watch.”  She had probably meant it to be reassuring, but it wasn’t.

He didn’t have much choice, though, and he lay back down, not sleepy at all, of course.  Trying to force it didn’t work, never did, and he tossed in the bedroll, whining to himself in frustration.  Finally, after so long he could no longer take it, his restless mind becoming pained, he worked up his nerve and cleared his throat, speaking softly towards the wall.  “Talia...?”

There was a pause.  “Yes?”

 “Will…” he hesitated.  “Will you sing to me?”  He felt his face redden.  “Barsad sings to me before bedtime…”

 “Oh?  And what does he sing for you?”  She sounded amused again, and he had a moment when he wasn’t sure if he should have told her about the singing, but it really did help him go to sleep at night.  By now it was routine, and being without it broke that up. 

 “Uhm, I don’t know what it’s called… but it sounds like this,” he cleared his throat again, singing out quietly and very badly.  “Ay-ee-nee-nee, Ay-ee-nee-nee, coh-da-lee-gee, coh-da-lee-gee,” he stopped, face more heated.  “I don’t know what the words mean; I don’t think it’s English…”

 “It’s not,” she softly confirmed.

 “Do you know it?” he asked, unable to help sounding hopeful as he looked over his shoulder towards her.

 “I do.”

He swallowed again, even less sure of himself and angry that he was looking like some fragile little kid who still needed bedtime stories.  He wasn’t frail or weak, but he could show her that tomorrow.  “Could you please sing it for me?  Just once… I just wanna hear it…”

There was another pause, and John’s heart sank just a little as he assumed it meant she wouldn’t do it.  Then it started, a soft, hushed and very differently accented voice singing out the words, the same words Barsad sang to him.  They didn’t bend and catch the same way that they did when he sang it, but John just pretended it was him, instead; she sounded nice, anyway.  John closed his eyes, snuggling back into the bedroll, finding it was a lot easier than he had worried over to drift off to the song, hearing her sing it through his dreams.

____________________

He next awoke to his hair being run through by slender fingers, hushed voices conversing around him.  Keeping his eyes closed, he tried to listen in and focus on the words that were being spoken.  His friends had returned; he could pick out Bane’s voice, though it sounded different, his tone wasn’t the same.  A softer voice was answering his, and John recognized it as the woman’s, Talia’s. 

 “Yes, I saw it, too,” she was saying.  “There are many orphans in this city, but few have his spirit.”

The fingers hesitated as their owner did, and Barsad’s melodic voice spoke carefully, “He… reminded us of you, Miss Talia.”  His tone was very respectful, honoring.  “We… I,” he changed, “could not bring myself to force him out or to hurt him.”  The stroking fingers clung gently to his scalp, rubbing just slightly.  It felt nice, like he belonged to them.

 “Should you wish it,” Bane’s affected voice hissed, “we will send him elsewhere, of course.”  The sincerity was clear, but John could tell even he did not want to see him go.  At least, he hoped he was right about that.  The worry crept up inside of him, and his stomach ached with it.

 “There is good reason not to take on strays,” she spoke coldly.

John trembled at the thought of actually leaving.  The hand at his hair stilled, and he was suddenly gathered up into Barsad’s lap, cradled soothingly.

 “Are you awake, my little bird?” he asked, sweeping John’s sleep-mussed hair out of his face.  Talia cleared her throat lightly, and Barsad’s hold became more stiff.  “John,” he corrected instead, less familiarly.  It hurt like anything John had ever heard, and he wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, desperate to keep the comforting contact, to show he wanted to stay, needed to.

 “Where will you keep him when he grows, when our purpose no longer keeps us here?” she demanded.  “What will you do with him, then?”

 “I can go with them,” John found himself answering solemnly, turning around to face her.  “I’m not going to just leave, and I won’t let you just send me away.”  The strength in his own voice surprised even him.  Something in his mind tried to remind him of an earlier agreement, but he couldn’t focus on it, only the argument.

Barsad started to quiet him, but an upheld hand from Talia stopped him.  “Let him speak,” she ordered, shifting closer to them, away from where she had sat next to Bane.  Her eyes once again drew him in, pulling out the truth from his mind.  “Do you understand what we are?” she asked, a weight to the words, making them—and their answer—important sounding.

John nodded firmly.  “Yes.  I went with them once.  I know what they can do, and I want to stay.”  He had to convince her, nothing else mattered.  “I don’t have anyone else; they’re my family, now,” he added, eyes welling up not out of sadness or even weakness, but with the ferocity of his emotions as they fought their way out of him.

 “You have seen but one night; that is not what we are,” she countered, her tone the kind adults used when they thought you were making stuff up.

 “They killed people… people who were trying to hurt them.”  It was justified in his mind; kill or be killed.  It wasn’t an issue to him, not with how they had saved him, carried him away.

Talia gave him an indulgent look.

John spread his arms and hands wide, frustrated.  “What else is there?!  How can I know it if you don’t TELL me??” he shouted louder than he had intended.

The comforting body that held him stiffened in surprise, and the arm that had been settled around his waist to steady him, hand curled around his side, started to withdraw until John’s own hands shot down to grip it tightly.  “Little one,” Barsad spoke out quietly, warningly.

 “NO,” he cried out harshly.  “I won’t be quiet, and I won’t sit here while you talk about me as if I don’t get a damn say!”  His breathing quickened and he glared between Talia and Bane, even though he hoped she was the only one that was really fighting against him staying.  Something in his gut told him that Bane would make good on his promise to follow her wishes, no matter what those wishes turned out to be. 

Talia clucked her tongue, reaching to run a fingernail down his cheek.  “Language, John.”  He kept his stare, but couldn’t help a nervous tremble at the touch, knowing it as the threat it was.  In all this time, he had never felt as afraid of the two men as he was of her; she who was much smaller and hadn’t been seen shooting at snipers and beating up SWAT teams.  Though he did not have a feeling of _wanting_ to obey her or make her pleased with him like he had with them, he strongly felt he _had_ to. 

An encouraging squeeze met his waist, and John croaked out, “I’m sorry.”  He wasn’t, not really; he would say anything if it meant he could stay.

She seemed pleased enough even so, offering a bit of that cold smile and inclining her head.  “That’s better,” she praised.  “Now,” the nail stroked down his cheek again, “I would feel you must understand what we are, what our purpose is, if you are to stay, however,” she paused, brushing John’s hair away from his forehead, a touch he wasn’t sure he really wanted from anyone but Barsad, “I’m not certain you are old enough yet to fully grasp it.” 

He started to protest that he wasn’t just a little kid, that he wasn’t dumb, but stopped, figuring it really wouldn’t get him anywhere.  “So are you going to tell me or not?” he asked, not trying to sound as sassy as he might have, given the shift in Barsad’s hold.

 “No,” she replied, sitting back from him a little.  “It is better for now that you keep the innocence you still hold.”  John saw Bane’s head rise up at that, paying closer attention to him.  “You may remain here, in the house,” she finally announced, though it almost seemed like it was more for his friends’ sake than for his, “if you will breathe word of our existence to no one.”  Her eyes sharpened, then, piercing into his almost painfully; that part was definitely meant for him.  “Should you break that agreement, you will not like the consequences.” 

He nodded quickly to show he understood, and she continued, “You will also obey Bane and Barsad in all things; they will be strict with you, perhaps more than they have been, but they will also be fair, and you will be taken care of with them.  There will be nothing you will be in need of.”

 “So…” he looked from Talia to Bane, twisting his neck to peer up at Barsad, and then back to Talia.  “If I listen, and keep it a secret, I can stay?...  Really-really?”  His fingers twisted lightly at the skin of Barsad’s arm, unable to help the nervous twitching and barely controlling his breathing as it was.  Getting to stay had been the plan all along, but he hadn’t realized how awful hearing a ‘no’ would have been until he was getting a ‘yes.’  Or so he desperately hoped.

 “Yes, you may stay.”

John couldn’t help a very little-kid-sounding squeal of delight, and he didn’t even care.  He turned and flung his arms around Barsad’s neck, holding on tightly as the man slipped his strong arms around John’s sides and back. 

 “We are glad to have you, little one,” Barsad breathed out under a slight muffling from how snug John’s hold was around his neck.  “But I do need to breathe,” he joked.

He pulled back quickly, even knowing his friend could breathe just fine.  He was grinning like a fool, he knew, and it brought a shine to Barsad’s eyes as he lifted a hand to ruffle up John’s hair affectionately.  Settling back into Barsad’s lap with a wiggle to get more comfortable, he was draped over with a blanket and held while the three adults talked.  He didn’t pay too close attention as he was still a bit sleepy and it didn’t have anything to do with him or anything even remotely pirate-y.  There was talk of Talia’s travel, some really boring stuff about weather, the stock market—apparently adults really did like to talk about the stock market, like the people on the news claimed—and a few other things John didn’t bother to identify. 

The last topic he noted before his eyelids began to betray him to flutter down was about apartments.  It seemed, if a set of sleep-approaching ears could be trusted, that Talia would not be living with them for more than a couple of days.  She was going to have her own apartment, as would they, eventually.  John couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed that they weren’t going to keep the house forever; it was nice being away from all of the people in the city for once.  And then suddenly the conversation was about him, he heard his name, even the new name Barsad sometimes spoke right before he fell asleep, but he couldn’t hold any of their words in his mind, and he left them for sleep, again.

____________________

He was groggy the next morning, and he knew the drug had been used on him again.  He didn’t ask about it, and neither man mentioned anything about it, but he couldn’t figure out why exactly they would have needed it if they had already come back from whatever work they’d needed to do that night.  Talia had left already, and John was briefly filled in that she had several organizations that she oversaw.  He wasn’t really sure what exactly that meant, but he didn’t dwell on the confusion for very long because by then it was time to eat.  He’d expected something like the beef sticks and canned food they’d been living on since he’d been there, but apparently there had been time to stock the refrigerator with more fresh food while John had been passed out.

None of the foods he was presented with that day were familiar, or even recognizable in some cases, but when he tried to push for beef jerky or canned soup, both men were firm in denying any other option.  He even tried pouting; that usually worked on foster parents if he remembered to use it.  Even a really good pout gained him no ground.  Barsad informed him that he wouldn’t be spoiled, a word that startled John a bit; he had never really thought of himself as capable of being spoiled because spoiled was what rich kids were, and he wasn’t rich.  He made faces while eating the vegetables, but found out quickly that making faces during meals only earned him a second helping of greens.  No pleading eyes would help.

 

Several more changes seemed to follow Talia’s visit and her talk with his pirates.  They no longer slept on sleeping bags on the floor; instead, there were two mattresses occupying the fireplace room.  One was smaller, John’s, and the other was larger, occupied by both of the men.  John supposed it made sense not to take up too much space in the room by putting in three mattresses.  He hadn’t minded the bedroll all that much, really, but the first night he lay down on the softer, supportive mattress, he had understood that there was, in fact, a possibility of being spoiled even if you _weren’t_ rich.  He’d even gotten a pillow; there had been a note on it from Talia, wishing him sweet dreams.  Barsad had peeked at it, raising an eyebrow and giving John’s side a nudge, but John had just pushed back at him with an embarrassed shove as the man had chuckled.  It wasn’t the pillow, he didn’t think anyway, but John had fewer nightmares the longer it was since their crazy, harrowing cycle chase. 


	11. Chapter 11

When the snow had finally mostly cleared from the bigger storm, John decided to fix the stir-craziness that had taken over his head from being house-bound by walking through the closer areas of the city for a while.  There was still snow on the ground, of course, but now from a lighter dusting that had come through in the night, coating the roofs of buildings and the piles here and there leftover from the snowplows’ work through the last storm.  Though he knew Barsad worried about him wandering around too far from the house alone, he knew his way around and couldn’t take being cooped up any longer.  Only after walking a few blocks and sticking his hands in his pockets against the chill of the wind did he realize that the man had managed to slip a small cell phone into his jacket.  Flipping it open curiously revealed that there were two numbers stored in the address book; BARSAD, and TALIA.  He smiled to himself, knowing he had a lifeline if he really needed it, and tucked the phone away again.

The streets were far from empty as he walked along them, but they were pleasantly less crowded than some areas of the city could get on a weekend afternoon.  Small restaurants had their tables and chairs set up outside their front windows to allow for customers to enjoy the open air and sunshine, a luxury only busy, good-weather days permitted.  The area was more upscale than where they were living, though it wasn’t too far of a walk from the house to these market streets.  It struck John as odd how an area clearly holding a lot more money could exist right next to an area that had next to or none.

After a couple of hours, he noticed there was someone following him; he was certain they had been for the past few blocks, hanging back, slowing when he slowed, speeding up when he sped up.  He could tell by the sound of the footsteps that it couldn’t be an adult, so why was a kid shadowing him?  Kids had followed him before, in other neighborhoods, in other lives with other families, but that was when he was known to them, in their schools, ripe for the harassing by simply being present in their circle of reality.  Now, however, he was none of those things to anyone, not for the last couple of months. 

When he crossed another side street, starting onto yet another block and hadn’t lost them, he ducked into the first alleyway he saw, figuring either he’d be free or at least see who it was.  Flattening his back against the rough bricks and patting his pocket to be sure he still had the cell in case he needed to get off a quick call, he watched the opening a few feet away and counted the seconds he’d guessed had been between them.

Five later, a bright blue though tattered jacket rounded the corner, worn by a girl maybe a little older than he was, who peered down the alley curiously.

 “…Tami?” John spoke out, surprised to see a familiar face attached to his would-be stalker.

Tami spun around, her long, dark braids flaring out from her head in the motion, making a melodic clink as their closing beads resettled against each other.  John had always liked the sound of them, kind of like rain.  Gasping, she placed a hand over her heart as she tried to settle.

 “…Sorry…” John offered lamely.  He hadn’t meant to startle her, but she _had_ been following him, which had gotten him worried, so really, it only seemed they were about even, now.  “Were you following me?”  He wondered briefly if she’d deny it.

She didn’t.  “Well, yeah,” Tami replied, a ‘duh’ implied in her tone.  “You haven’t been at school for weeks, over a month, now, John, and people say you ran away.”  She looked worried, then.  “And now I see you here on the street all by yourself?”  She placed her hands on her hips.  “You’re delusional if you think I _wouldn’t_ follow you.”

On the one hand, it was nice to know she cared; Tami had been one of the few people that listened when he told them what he wanted to be called.  He realized now that maybe there were some people he actually missed after leaving—not many, but a handful maybe.  “I’m fine,” he shrugged. 

She stared him down, her face and eyes nowhere close to his family’s talent for drawing information out of him, but determined nonetheless.  “Are you, though?  Are you really?  It’s been cold, John, really cold, and you left your house, and—”

 “I’m FINE,” John cut her off.  “Look, got a new jacket and everything.”  He spread his arms to show the thick denim jacket that Barsad had brought home after the first few nights following their rooftop adventure.  They kept his old one, of course, but this one was a lot warmer.

 “How did you get it?”  She sounded suspicious, and he knew she thought he’d stolen it.  He couldn’t blame her, really; most of the kids on the streets stole to get what they needed.  But he didn’t, and he hadn’t, and it kind of hurt to be accused of it when it wasn’t true.

“Someone gave it to me,” he answered, tugging the jacket around him a bit more.

Tami still looked worried for him, her head tilting slightly, brows knitted together.  “Who gave it to you, John?  Are you staying someplace safe?”  She looked like she wanted to believe that he was.  There were plenty of places people tried to stay when they didn’t have a home, and those who were street-smart knew well enough to steer clear of most of them. 

 “My dad gave it to me,” he returned after hesitating.  He hadn’t called either of them that, not yet, and had no idea if it would be okay if he did, but that’s just what they were to him—his dads.  It felt good to say it out loud, made it seem real, and made his insides feel warmer.

She froze.  “John…” and there was the pitying look he loathed so much, even if it wasn’t as strong from her.  She didn’t say it, but she was thinking it, he could tell—poor John’s gone a bit crazy thinking his dead dad gave him the jacket he probably stole from a window display.  Everyone knew his parents were dead, it was the first thing anyone knew about him, and the only thing most chose to think or talk about.

 “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m telling the truth.  My dad gave it to me.”  He shuffled his feet a bit in the grit along the ground.  “I have a new dad, okay?  Two of ’em.  And I’m safe, and they’re good to me.”  It all came out in a rush, but it didn’t really matter if she understood him or not.

She still looked worried, but maybe she’d never stop looking worried.  “So… you found a new foster family?” she questioned, seeming hopeful that that would be the answer.

 “Uhm,” he considered how much of a lie it would really be to just say that he had.  Lying to a girl he’d probably never see again didn’t seem like a big deal to him, but the last time he had told even a little lie, Bane had been angry with him.  The warning had been that lies earned him correction, and John wouldn’t like to have that.  Neither of the men had mentioned or promised punishments before that, and the event stuck out in John’s mind.  “It’s not really the same as that,” he decided to start with.  “But I found a new family.  That’s it.”

 “If you ever need anything, John…” Tami wasn’t one to argue unnecessarily, but she didn’t give up easily, either.  “You know where to find me, okay?  And if I see you around, I’m going to check on you, got it?”

He nodded in agreement, though mostly out of a desire to end the conversation.  Tami was nice, but she was part of his life in the before… he felt different, now, and it was strange to have the two connecting.  “Alright, I got it,” he finally voiced when nodding didn’t seem like enough to convince her.  “Bye…”

She hesitated, making a displeased face over it, but finally gave in.  “Okay… bye, John… I’ll see you sometime.” 

 “Yeah, probably,” he fibbed, knowing he would actively avoid the area if she was going to be walking in it.  He stayed put against the wall as she turned and left the alley after a few more moments, glancing back at him one last time before rounding the corner wall and disappearing onto the sidewalk. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he waited until he figured she had to be at least a block or two away before stepping back out of the alley entrance and going back the way he’d come.  He still felt like being outside and walking around, but he didn’t really want to be near people at all anymore.  This situation, living with his pirates, had made him happier than he’d been in a long time, more at ease, even though he worried for them every night they left—they always came back, but part of his mind, deep-set, wondered how long it would be before they came back with holes in them, or worse.  Part of his mind automatically distrusted safety, calm, and quiet.  Everyone got hurt eventually, and everyone died eventually.  He didn’t like to think about it, but it was still true, still there in the back of his brain eating away at it a little. 

John sighed as he stopped walking to peer through a café window, one of the few places that hadn’t set out their tables for the afternoon, and watched the patrons inside as they ate.  Most were families—a set of parents, a mom and dad, one or a couple of kids with them, smiling as they ate, looking happy, looking complete.  If there had ever been a time when John had been out with both his mom and dad, sitting in some café eating happily and spending time together, he couldn’t remember it.  It had been so long ago that she’d died, he’d been so small.  He could still see her face in his mind, a little, but mostly there was a fuzzy feeling of an image that he just recognized as _mom_ out of all other images of adults floating around in his memory.  He’d also had quite the habit of comparing each new foster-mother to his decreasing supply of real-mom memories, so he’d built up a list of characteristics of what she _hadn’t been_ to match what he could remember of what she _had_ been.  It wasn’t a happy thought that he had more of the first in his mind than the second.

A little toddler squirmed in his seat to peer out the window, spaghetti strings squished in his hand and sauce around his mouth.  He grinned at John, shaking the pasta at him in what was probably the best he could do for a greeting.  It was such an honest hello that John had to smile just a little, the corner of his mouth tugged up into his cheek, and gave a small wave in return.  A soundless laugh followed the rest of the little boy’s wave, but was stilled a moment later as the man seated next to him looked to find out what his son was laughing at.  Seeing John, ripped and patched jeans, alone, the man must have assumed he was homeless or worse, because he shushed the boy, turning his highchair around to face away from the window.  John received a quick glare for waving nicely at the kid before the man, too, turned his back to the street.  The smile died on his lips. 

_Right_ , he reminded himself, jaw clenched tightly as he turned to continue on his way back towards the house.  _People are assholes._

____________________

A few days after he’d run into Tami on the street, they dyed his hair—at Talia’s suggestion, he learned afterward.  Instead of the dark brown that shined in the light sometimes if he managed to keep it combed and washed—which, admittedly, was quite rare enough as it was—it was turned a dusty black.  His head itched for the rest of that day, even around his ears where some of the dye had discolored the skin, but he did look a bit different even in the mirror, especially when he was given some gel to style it rather than just letting it flop like he usually did.  The hair gel had kind of appeared out of nowhere.  He never saw bags of any of their supplies arrive in the house, not like when people usually shopped for groceries and stuff, but things that they needed were just always there when they did. 

As far as they had seen, there hadn’t been any new notices of missing children with his photo on them, but they wanted to be cautious in case he went out in public any more.  It had taken a bit of doing to get him to fess up about the encounter in the alley, but when he’d come home looking a bit spooked, there had been no letting it go.  Bane had noticed it, first, and lifted a scarred eyebrow as he regarded him. 

 “What’s happened?” he had asked, not bothering to stand from being seated at the small, square table that had appeared in the small kitchen that week.  There had been no need for the man to stand up and use his considerable mass as a roadblock between the backdoor where John stood and the front room that had been his intended destination.  Only his voice was necessary to give anyone pause; the commanding tone, even quiet as it had been, maybe especially since it was quiet, had frozen John’s feet in place.  Barsad hadn’t been in the room, and John could hear the clicks and catching sound from the front room that indicated he was cleaning out his guns.  Even if he had wanted or been able to slip through the kitchen and away from Bane’s interrogation, he would have been sternly sent out of the front room.  He was never allowed to be in the room when guns were being cleaned in case there were any accidents, despite the fact he was smart enough to empty them first.  Barsad was extremely careful and had never had an incident himself, but he took extra safety measures whenever John was around.

 “I… N-Nothing happened,” he had tried, backpedaling quickly when the stern eyes hardened in his direction.  “I mean, nothing _happened_ like, like went wrong or anything…”

 “Explain,” had come the simple command, accompanied by a sweep of Bane’s braced arm towards a chair on the other side of the small table.  “Sit.”

Stripping his jacket off his shoulders to hang on the back of the chair, John had sat down, twisting his fingers around each other as he settled his hands in his lap nervously.  “I went out walking…” when he had paused, there had been a slight, patient noise from the man’s throat, a quiet urge to continue.  “…And I saw someone; someone that I knew.”  He had risked a peek up at the man’s face, trying to focus only on the mask and not the piercing eyes.  “She was following me.”

 “She?” Bane had asked, not in a way that was teasing like Barsad might have under different circumstances, but wanting more information. 

John had swallowed at the lump in his throat, though it did little good.  He hadn’t done anything wrong, he knew that, but he still felt like he had somehow let them both down by letting himself be seen.  “Y-yeah, she… I used to go to school with her.  I mean, only for a couple of months, but she’d been kind of nice to me and I guess she actually noticed when I wasn’t there anymore, and when she saw me she followed me and was worried about me and then she thought I stole my jacket instead of it being from Barsad, and I don’t know if she even _believed_ me when I said my dad gave it to me and that I was okay and not hurt and she shouldn’t worry about me even though I ran away and—”

A thick hand had suddenly grasped his shoulder, startlingly enough to cut off his breathless ramble and bring his eyes up to meet Bane’s.  “Breathe.”

John had sighed, taking a deep breath and looking up at the man uncertainly.  “Am I in trouble?” he had asked, trying desperately to keep his voice even.

 “No, little one.”  He hadn’t really believed it.

 “I told her I was fine… and I waited until she walked the other way for a while until I came back… and I didn’t come STRAIGHT back, and no one followed me, so I don’t think that—” 

He had been cut off once again by a firmly spoken “John.”  The clicking noises from the front room had stopped by then, and Barsad had appeared in the hallway entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the wall as he wiped chemicals and lubricants off of his hands onto a dirty-looking towel scrap.  John hadn’t been able to resist the urge to run to him, to fling his arms around the man’s middle, even knowing there was probably a fair amount of barrel crud on the well-stained shirt he wore when cleaning.  Hugging his waist tightly, he had sniffled and blinked back the wetness that had threatened his eyes.  He would not cry.  He would not cry.

A smaller, more graceful hand had slipped its fingers through his hair lightly, not deeply so as not to dirty it too badly, and John had no longer been able to hold back a loud sob, leaning his weight fully against Barsad, whose body was leaned solidly against the wall by then.  The sound of a chair scraping the fake-tile floor had come from behind him, and suddenly there had been two hands rifling through his hair, rubbing at his scalp and attempting to calm him.

 “Shh,” he had heard murmured above him.  “It’s alright, little bird…”  The voice had sounded, in that moment, so much like his dad’s that he had only cried more for the feeling he had gotten standing in front of the café window.  His chin had been cupped when he had buried his face against Barsad’s stomach, and he had been gently forced to look up into the man’s eyes.  “You’re safe, Éinín… What troubles you so?”

Taking a shuddery breath, he had explained about the café window, and how broken it had made him feel, how angry.  And, even though it hadn’t really occurred to him before, he was spilling out like a blubbery mess, how much he had been jealous of that little boy who had a family with him, who didn’t have to worry about anything and no one looked at him differently because he was “normal.”  All the while, both hands had stayed on him, stroking, rubbing at both his head and his back, and he had slowly begun to calm down even though he still felt an almost overwhelming sense of unfairness at the whole thing.  Why had that little kid gotten to keep his family?  Of course, he’d thought, maybe he’d lose _his_ , too, after a couple of more years, but that wouldn’t be fair, either.  He could take care of himself, really, he could, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to have some kind of family, either.

 “Finished?” a soft voice had asked of him.  Barsad had cupped the side of face, wiping away some of his tears with a rough-padded thumb.  John had nodded, his breath still catching in his throat as he had tried to settle it further.  “Alright.  I heard you told that little girl that your dad had given you your jacket.”

Shit. 

John’s eyes had widened and he had tried to step back, away from them, knowing he had never before called either of them that out loud.  He had slipped up, and he had been certain that it was going to get him into trouble.  Instead of being let go, however, he had been held fast, gently, an understanding face peering down into his. 

 “Do you think of us that way, my little bird?”  It was hard not to, with the way he kept calling John the same thing his real dad had.

He had nodded, unable to swallow past the lump that had grown larger, almost chokingly, in his throat.  “Y-You’re like that… you take care of me, and I live with you, and you buy me things…”  He had sniffled, knowing that the words made sense to _him_ , but unable to know how they would truly be received. 

Against all odds, Barsad had smiled softly down at him.  There had been none of the coldness, none of the harsh sharpness that generally filled his face, his eyes.  Barsad the Pirate Ninja had not been the one smiling down at John, then; it had been Barsad his Dad.

From then on, he had been allowed to call both of them “dad” whenever he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **End of Part I. Part II will be the next 5 chapters.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note:** Beginning of Part II.

“No, no,” John held up his hands to forestall the scolding he knew was coming, holding the rolled up paper awkwardly between his teeth and lips while trying to still speak.  “It’s not a cigarette, I promise…”  Reaching up, he plucked the roll from his mouth after taking a drag to keep it lit, holding it out in the air between them for Barsad’s inspection, keeping the smoke in his lungs as he lifted his eyebrows to emphasize his point. 

Cigarettes were off-limits.  Bane had caught John smoking one a year or so earlier, and not only had the two packs he’d bought been thrown away, he’d also lost all privileges for a week.  During that week, he’d been woken up each morning—and by morning, he of course meant sunrise—to a rigorous course of calisthenics that had been followed by a nasty protein shake that he had had to hold his nose in order to swallow without losing whatever food he’d eaten the previous day.  He had been allowed an hour or so rest wherein he had been expected to read his texts and study the maps he’d been given and then Barsad had taken him on a two-hour jog around the city blocks surrounding their fourth-floor apartment, oh, and that was with running up and down the stairs—all of them—at least five or six times before and after.  Cold water had been the only option given for a shower after his run, and if he tried to sneak and slowly turn on the faucet knob for hot, Barsad would reach in and fix it—he’d stood next to the curtain to make sure it stayed cold.  The blandest of greens had been served as dinner; the evenings had been spent in physical sparring sessions against Barsad, the man holding back his strength but still handedly overpowering any attempts John made at defending himself, let alone attacking.  By the time each day had been done, John had been completely exhausted.  The point, according to Bane, had been not only to work the poisons contained in the cigarettes out of his system, but to remind him just how difficult it was to keep his body healthy when _not_ introducing foreign agents to sabotage the efforts. 

John had sworn he would never touch another of the little white sticks again, and he had meant it.  He liked how it felt, holding something between his fingers, breathing in the warm smoke, letting it fill his lungs and run over his tongue.  Though he’d only managed to hide it from them for a couple of weeks, he’d gotten quite attached to the habits it built.  Without being able to smoke them again, he’d had to find something else to feed the urge.

Barsad took the joint as John finally slowly released the lungful, turning it over carefully in his nimble fingers.  “Where did you get this?” he asked with much less of an accusation to his tone than John had expected.

 “Wendell, at the store,” he answered, watching as the man sniffed at the unlit end of the joint.  John had been working at a small ‘mom and pop’ type drugstore several blocks away from the house for the past few months.  It was an under-the-table position, since he was just shy of the legal age to work without paperwork from a parent and even if he were older he had no documentation he could give away without arousing suspicion on what could possibly be a missing-persons case.  John didn’t think anyone was still looking for him after six years, but it was insisted that he be careful at all times, that he act as if just speaking his name would incite police activity.  So he’d gotten a job at the store sweeping and mopping the floors, stocking shelves, running errands, that sort of thing.  Wendell, the owner, had taken a liking to him when he’d seen him a few times, and paid him in cash at the end of each week—it wasn’t a lot, but it was more than the odd jobs his old classmates probably took on, and it gave John some spending money of his own. 

He would have liked to work there longer each day, but Bane had insisted it remain only a few hours daily, lest anyone become suspicious of his lack of school attendance, as well as not to interfere with the studies both men assigned him at home.  John didn’t talk too much about his home life while there, but Wendell had assumed he came from somewhere he liked to get away from as much as possible; that suited John’s needs just fine.  His sympathy had been the reason John had been able to trade in part of his pay for a small supply of weed, to begin with, in fact. 

“Look,” he continued, “he grows the stuff in his basement, so it’s pure, okay?”

 “Pure,” Barsad repeated, giving him a rather amused and indulging look.  It was a buzzword for him and John knew it, but it was also true.  Cigarettes from a factory came with untold additives and poisonous fillers, and weed from the wrong people came with its own dangers.  Fresh hash from a private grower, however, was a completely different story.

 “Yeah, pure… and this’s better than tobacco, ‘cause it’s got like… stuff… stuff that’s good for you.  It’s all over the news, you know…” he let the last part draw and hang out vaguely, not sure at all on what parts of the plant were even supposed to be used in medicinal remedies, just knowing that folks had been talking about it.  Hell, cancer patients were using the stuff, so it had to have some real-life value, right?  He couldn’t think properly of the logical arguments he’d planned out for if he ever got caught... of course, he had thought those out when he _wasn’t_ half-baked, so maybe that was no surprise.  The realization of that gave him a bit of a giggle he couldn’t hold back. 

Barsad raised an eyebrow at him. 

 “Well, it’s not a cigarette, y’know?” he shrugged a bit, hinging his argument on that fact and hoping it was strong enough for the moment, clearing his throat to cover the giggle.

 “Indeed it’s not,” Barsad agreed, and then John froze in shock as the man held the joint to his own lips and inhaled with a practiced ease. 

 “Y—… You… you’ve DONE that before!” he accused, eyes wide and pointing his finger wagglingly at Barsad.  That wasn’t fair at all, for him to talk so strongly at John for something he himself was so good at he _had_ to have done it a hundred times or more.  “Do _you_ smoke?”

Barsad let the smoke out slowly, his mouth a relaxed “o” framed by his beard.  “No,” he began, eyes closing briefly as he seemed to revel in the feeling of the first drag.  “Not as a rule.”  Notably, the joint was not handed back to John, even when he reached for it. “Aht,” he admonished. 

 “C’mon… I bought it…”  It was a foolish argument and he knew it, but it _was_ true, after all.

 “Ohh,” Barsad mocked.  “You bought it, so I should let you have it?”  John watched as he took another sizeable drag, seeming to savor it before finally blowing out the smoke… right into John’s face.

Waving a hand in front of his face, John snorted.  “C’mo-o-o-on,” he dragged out, “give it back…”  He made another grab for the joint, but his hand was calmly slapped away from it.  “Please...? Daddy?” 

 “Now _that_ , little bird,” he began, gesturing sternly at him with the lit joint, “is not a fair play.”

 “Did it work...?” he asked, trying a pouted lip even though he wasn’t little enough for it to be disgustingly cute anymore, if it ever had been.  “…Daddy?”  One more couldn’t hurt.

Barsad made a grumbling noise in his throat, his jaw muscles twitching and ruffling his beard as they shifted.  Finally, after several moments’ consideration, he took one last drag, the joint more than half gone by then, and handed it back to John who took it gratefully, and quickly.  “My brother will not be pleased with this habit, either,” he spoke a bit more languidly through his expelled smoke.  “He will insist it not become regular, lest it cloud your mind and make you less able to learn.”

John quickly protected the joint from further thievery with his hand, taking a drag before it could possibly be removed again.  “I don’t have a _lot_ of it,” he hissed out with his breath.  “But I like it… and it’s not _cigarettes_ , after all.”   

 “Aye,” the breathed-out agreement came accompanied by a thoughtful squint of his eyes.  “And it is good,” he gave him a smile that was, if John was seeing anything correctly at the moment, a bit more relaxed than his smiles usually got.  “Once a month,” he declared.  “You can have it once a month… we’ll share it.”

John grinned.  Every once in a while, he won.


	13. Chapter 13

The first time John saw one of their jobs on the news, he was startled.  Of course, he hadn’t been allowed to go along with them for it, so at first he couldn’t be quite sure if it really was them, but the timing had been right, and how many payrolled snipers were there in the city, anyway?  Barsad had left with his rifle that morning, and John had been left to go through his workout routine on his own, instead of with the two of them.  He was supposed to study after that, as well, facing a reprimand upon their return if he hadn’t.

Most of their work was done at night, and less often even than it was when he had been little, so the day had started off a bit strange already.  He finished his studies early, taking advantage of the time to climb down into the alley to sneak an early joint.  If he was careful, _really_ careful, he could sometimes get away with one or two extra tokes a month.  He had a hiding spot in the alley just for his hash stash, as he amused himself calling it.  About halfway to the back of the narrow alley space between apartment buildings, there was a pair of loose bricks he’d discovered shortly after they’d moved in. 

Luckily, he had never stashed cigarettes there, or it probably would have been discovered by then.  The space the bricks left behind them was just enough for a baggie and a couple of pre-rolled joints; the lighter he was allowed to have on him whenever since Barsad considered them useful for other purposes, as well.  He cringed as he eased the bricks out, hoping he wouldn’t see the space emptied out, but he hadn’t yet been found out.  Breathing a sigh of relief, he took one out and lit it, savoring the warmth as he held in the smoke.  It wasn’t cold out, really, but it was always a comfort to be warmed from the inside out.

Sitting down against the wall, he watched the clouds blow overhead, imagining all sorts of crazy shapes—elephants, trucks, giant boobs… that one had him in a giggle fit he had been glad no one was around to hear.  He couldn’t help imagining how big he’d have to be to play with boobs that huge, at least, big enough not to get smothered by them—though he conceded the point to himself that that would indeed be an acceptable way to die—and by then the next cloud looked just like a gigantic penis, and John lost himself to loud laughter, his head spinning deliriously.  Glancing at the stub of smoldering paper in his grip, he decided if he really had the day to himself, he could smoke both, get an even better high.  It only took a moment’s deliberation before he decided that it would be a complete waste of an afternoon _not_ to smoke both.  So he did, and by the time he had finished, he was quite baked.

Still giggling to himself, he tried to return the bricks to their spots, but gave up shortly after he couldn’t figure out which way it was that bricks were supposed to go.  Bricks were hard.  They stuck out awkwardly as he left them to stand, and he half-walked half-stumbled over to the ladder leading to the fire escape and making the noisiest climb he had ever heard.  So much for being a stealthy kid raised by a couple of ninjas.  Even that gave him a giggle fit that flattened him down against the last landing before his bedroom window’s entrance.  He was the noisiest ninja ever.  He couldn’t help rolling over onto his back, the harsh metallic mesh of the grated floor biting through the thin t-shirt he hadn’t bothered to cover with a jacket.  It hurt a bit, but he could see the clouds again and got lost in them, swimming through their fluffy folds, flying around their edges, molding them with his upheld hands until they made new shapes for him, for a little while—probably at least five minutes, he thought.  Maybe it hadn’t warmed up as much as he’d thought, because he was shivering when he finally climbed back through the window, his foot catching on the sill and sending him sprawling onto his bed face-first with an _oof_ as the breath was forced from his lungs. 

 “You make quite an entrance,” accused the voice of a person he hadn’t noticed was inside his room until he heard it.  It was at once both sarcastic and sincere in a way that made John’s cheeks flush with chagrin.

Attempting, and failing utterly, to untwist his limbs from their tangled state upon his bed, leaving him face-down on the blanket still, he grunted an agreement.  He wanted to laugh at the ridiculous pose he must be in, but he was the one in it, and even with his head still in the clouds it seemed less funny to be the one twisted than the one watching the twisted person.  At least, he thought it should be.

The voice wasn’t laughing, however, as a set of strong, firm hands manhandled him back to a reasonable position half-seated half-lying on the bed, face up at last.  Grateful, he nodded towards the voice and hands, then stilled, blinking his hash-bleary eyes at their owner, realizing with a sense of dread—peppered with an urge to burst out laughing all over again—that he didn’t even recognize the person standing before him.  He guessed the guy was about his age, maybe a hair older—a nose hair, something short—but was a bit taller and definitely broader across, just all-around bigger than John, but not looking all like an adult yet.

 “Do you often find yourself in a pretzel?” the smooth voice asked, sounding a lot lower than John’s had turned yet.  The guy looked like a ninja on his day off with how he wore regular clothes but all black, and sleek, form-fitting material.  He’d fit in perfectly in the apartment, really, John couldn’t help thinking.  His addled mind overlaid images of the apartment with the guy’s image, in different rooms, different positions.  Wait…

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously once righted, John waggled a finger at the guy.  “Who are you?” he asked. “And what are you doing in here? How did you even get in?  What do you want?” He had better questions, but the room was pulsing a bit and messing with his head as it moved around the other kid.  The motion left him barely able to spare focus to wonder where he’d put the bowie knife he tried to keep on him at all times.  It wasn’t in either of his pants pockets, and if he couldn’t see it from where he sat then it wasn’t going to be much help.

 “That’s a lot of questions,” replied the intruding ninja-dressed kid.  “But maybe I can answer them one at a time,” he offered, holding his hands up in a ‘we come in peace’ way.  John was pretty sure aliens were supposed to have green skin, not a rich brown.  “First, my name is Kojo, and I was sent here by a woman named Miranda Tate.”

Oh.  John sat up more at hearing the name.  ‘Miranda Tate’ was the identity that Talia had assumed in order to set herself up in Gotham’s elite society.  But for the kid to know that name only made John even more suspicious, though his suspicion took a back seat to the earth-shattering rumble that erupted from his stomach.  He needed something to snack on right then; no waiting. 

Though there was still a vague sense that he hadn’t gotten all of the information he’d asked for yet, and that he should probably have looked for the bowie knife really fast before turning his back on a kid who’d just wandered into—hell, possibly broken into—their apartment with no forewarning, he was quite overcome by the sudden munchies.  He vaulted off the bed, extremely ungracefully, stumbling along the ground as he made his way toward the door, unable to help a few bubbles of laughter as he did so.

Only a vague sense of being followed let him know the kid came with him into the kitchen as John started to root through cupboards he already knew were completely devoid of anything remotely related to candy.  The guy made no sound as he stood in the doorframe separating the small kitchen from the entryway into the apartment.  John was being watched, though, he knew that much even without looking back as his search took him to the refrigerator after finding nothing suitable in any of the cupboards, which he had not bothered to close after opening their doors. 

At last, he remembered that Talia had hidden away a small bag of chips—for snack emergencies only, she’d warned.  Well, twice-baked and hankering for anything remotely unhealthy like nobody’s business seemed like enough of an emergency to him.  Tugging over the metal-legged stool they kept in the corner, he stepped up beside the refrigerator, reaching back along the wall behind it until his fingers hit a crinkling plastic surface.

Bingo.

 “Are you high?” came the hesitant question from Kojo.

 “NO,” John answered defensively as he tugged his prize free and hopped down, popping the bag of corn chips open and dumping a pile of them directly into his mouth.  “Just hungry,” he mumbled through bits of half-chewed chip.  Not the best manners he had ever displayed in his life thus far, but there was hardly anyone around to see and he didn’t care as long as he had chips to devour, really.  God, they were good. 

 “I think you’re lying about that, John,” Kojo calmly argued.

 “Hey, how’d you know my name?”

Kojo smiled all friendly-like; John instantly disliked it.  “Miss Tate told me I’d find you here, and to try my best not to startle you… which is why she gave me a key to the front door.”  Well, that was how he’d gotten in, then.  John really should have been more concerned about that before getting chips to eat.  Next apartment invasion, he’d be better prepared.

 “Hmph,” he got out past the chips.  Bored of the conversation, he stepped past Kojo and out of the kitchen area into the main room of their apartment.  He flopped down onto the couch, feet up on the coffee table and dumped another pile of chips into his mouth, crunching them loudly.  Chips were just so much more satisfying the louder they sounded in his mouth.  It was like making them louder was making them tastier just by making more sound inside his head.  Maybe it really worked that way.  He’d have to find out later if crunching boring vegetables did the same thing, though he doubted it. 

Kojo seemed comfortable enough to drop down next to John on the couch, arm stretched out over the back of it, slightly behind John.  He gave him a sidelong glance, but turned back away from him to focus on his chips for the moment.  However, no matter how boring the conversation had been, it felt too quiet without it.  John flicked on the TV set to fill the silence, and his attention was grabbed pretty quickly as his eyes caught the newscast busily occupying the screen. 

There’d been a shooting.  Of course, there was always the possibility that there was a connection between this shooting and Barsad’s abnormal daytime assignment, and that possibility grew more solid when he read the ticker running along the bottom of the screen as it explained that the victim, Joe Chill, had apparently been proposed as a witness against the mob-boss Carmine Falcone.  They didn’t talk about it too much, but John had known for a while now that the employer of his ninja-like adoptive fathers was in fact the largest, most influential crime-boss the city had ever seen.  It had taken him a few days after gaining that information to realize that that, of course, was what the elaborate “CF” monogram on the money bags had been years earlier, when he’d first arrived with them.  He supposed, by normative standards, that he should be bothered that their source of income, the same money that supported and sustained his own life, was a crime syndicate, but he never saw what they did as crime in and of itself, so the two didn’t quite match up in his head. 

 “Crazy, isn’t it?” Kojo asked, breaking the quiet beyond the low buzz of voices from the television’s speakers.  “How one little action can change so much.”  He seemed in awe, and something about that both worried and made John quite jealous.  Did he know Barsad and Bane already, in addition to Talia?  They were _his_ adopted family, not this kid’s.

 “Yeah…” he stopped when he heard the shooter had been a sniper.  Suddenly, the room wasn’t pulsing like it had been.  The world was still kind of a blur, but the TV was in sharp focus.  “Barsad,” he breathed, certain now that the man had been the one involved.  He instantly worried for his safety even more so when the reporter stated that there had been shots fired at the location the sniper shots seemed to have come from, even a police chase that, thankfully, had been fruitless so far, according to the report. 

What if he’d gotten hit?  What if he was hurt?  What if he needed John’s help...?  He started to get up, intending to go search for him, but a long-fingered hand clasped his thigh firmly, holding him down against the couch.  John looked up, ready to chew him out for it, but the kid was looking at him so intently, with a steadiness in his eyes that made him seem a lot older than the rest of his body appeared. 

 “That would not be wise, to run off half-cocked,” he spoke evenly.  “Better to sit here and ride out that high you’re on.”

John gaped at the boy.  There had been no joke in his tone; he was absolutely certain that John was high, not just accusing him of it.  “How the fuck do you even—”

Kojo clicked his tongue in disapproval.  “I don’t think you’re supposed to swear like that,” he admonished. 

 “Well how the fuck did you know that for sure?” he demanded, starting to get nervous.

He got an indulgent look from under Kojo’s brows.  “Your spot in the alley is perhaps not as stealthy as you think it is.”

 “Fuck you, no one was supposed to be out there,” he snapped.  A hand came up from behind his shoulders to cuff the back of his head in reprimand.  “Hey!”  Not even Bane was physical like that with him, Barsad usually only tugging at his hair if he needed a physically-anchored correction.  Of course, he knew better by then than to swear around Bane.  Just because someone had never hit you doesn’t mean you tempt them into wanting to do it.

 “Language.”

 “I don’t even know you, man,” he ground out incredulously.  “That’s so not cool.”

 “Better a stranger than one you care about, perhaps?”

 “No.”  John looked back to the TV, worry creasing his brow.  “Never better a stranger.  I’ve had enough of strangers.” 

There was no more word on the sniper, only a bunch of bullshit about Wayne Enterprises, a big corporation that had more cash than half the city.  Maybe more than half.  Then a photograph flashed up on the screen, a young couple with a boy standing between them, a boy about the age John had been when he’d first run away.  The label box at the bottom of the screen announced the pair as Thomas and Martha Wayne, and suddenly a young man was on the screen, live-looking footage, holding his hands out to block the camera lenses being shoved into his face.


	14. Chapter 14

> _“…Orphaned billionaire Bruce Wayne, young heir to the fortune of Wayne Enterprises and survivor of Chill’s heinous crime fifteen years ago, attended today’s hearing but declined to comment…”_

John knew that name.  He’d never seen the guy in person, but anyone who ever saw a newspaper or local talk on TV, or hell, the internet, knew of Bruce Wayne, at least in passing, or knew of something connected to him.  Anyone who’d grown up without parents or lost them as a kid knew his story really well, too.  It was something of legendary status to see an orphan with that much life to him, not cowering in some run-down foster home placement or a strict, cold boy’s home, not railing at the world, not just slipped into a life of destructive crime.  No, Wayne had gone to ivy-league schools and lived in a mansion just outside the city limits, having enough money at his fingertips to pretty much do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.  Talk about a dream life. 

 “So, that’s the guy that killed Wayne’s parents?”  He couldn’t help feeling a sense of justice at a murderer getting what was coming to him.  Sure, his dads killed people, but it just wasn’t the same.  What had happened to the Waynes had been pointless; they hadn’t deserved to die like that, and neither had his real dad.  If the chance came up, he’d shoot whoever had taken him from him, even though he knew it couldn’t bring him back.  He was far beyond the point of hoping his dad would somehow come back to him. 

Kojo nodded, not having taken his hand from John’s leg just yet.  “Yeah, that’s him, from what I’ve heard.”

 “I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, piling the last of the small bag of chips into his mouth.

 “What?”

 “I said, I’m not going anywhere… you can let go of me, now,” he repeated, nodding his head at the guy’s hold.  It was starting to feel a little awkward to have the hand of some guy he didn’t know on him like that.  “Yeah, I’m sure,” he spoke quickly when it looked like he was going to be questioned instead of let go.

Finally, Kojo nodded and released him, John immediately shifting away to the other end of the couch to make a bit more space around him.  “Something wrong?”

 “No,” he replied as nonchalantly as he could manage while still high and still chewing the last bits of his snack.  “So… how long are you staying?”

The question got him an amused smile, and really, the kid needed to stop acting like he was a grown-up who knew so much more than John, because he couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen himself and one or two years difference didn’t make him magically in charge of them both.  “As long as is necessary, and then perhaps a while more,” Kojo replied.  John didn’t think it was just the weed making the guy confusing.

Chips woefully finished, John crumpled up the bag and shoved it into his pocket for safe keeping until he could dispose of the evidence where neither of his dads could find it.  Pulling his legs up to cross them in front of him on the couch cushion, he rubbed at his arms, shivering.  He really should have worn a coat to go out, even if it had been a short smoke.

 “Cold?”  The kid’s eyes were on him sharply, the kind of look a parent or teacher gets… and, well, he wasn’t John’s parent or caretaker, so he could just shove it.

 “…’m fine,” he muttered, rubbing a bit more firmly.  At least, he would be fine if he could just warm up a bit more on the inside.

 “You’re not fine,” Kojo argued, sitting up to grab the throw-blanket from the back of the couch, unfolding it and making like he was going to wrap it around John’s shoulders.  “You need to warm up or you could get sick,” he warned, and there was that parental voice again.

John batted the blanket away as it came closer.  “That’s not gonna help; I need to warm up on the _inside_.”  Maybe he could make coffee or something.  He didn’t really like coffee much, but it was warm, after all.  “You like cof—” he stopped, because he had an even more perfect idea than coffee could ever be.  Hell, he had a frickin’ lightbulb above his head at the moment, it was that good.

Kojo raised his eyebrows at the pause.  “Cough?” he repeated, sitting up as John suddenly stood off the couch, nearly falling on his face by not accounting for the fact he’d had his legs crossed.  He managed to swallow the giggle it raised.

 “No, better,” he smirked once his balance was caught.  Turning off the TV that had gone back to talking about weather and sports with a flick of the remote, he bounded back to the kitchen, reaching into one of the still-open cupboards to pull out the familiar, battered coffee can.  This would warm him much better.

 “So, coffee?” Kojo questioned from right behind him, making him nearly drop the can as he juggled it in his hands after being startled.

 “Jesus, don’t need to sneak the fuck up on me, you know.”  Seriously.  “And no, it’s not coffee, it’s better.”  He slapped back at Kojo’s hand as he got a cuff to the back of the head again.  “Fuck off.”  And another.  “Cut it out!” he shouted, backing up away from him, only to be stopped by the refrigerator. 

 “So what is it, John?” the kid asked as if he hadn’t just hit him for swearing.  As if they were just in the middle of a conversation still.

 “Something better, duh.”  He glared a little and pried off the cap to the can, revealing the small baggie with two carefully rolled joints tucked inside atop a bit of loose leaf.  It had almost been that time of the month, anyway.  It wouldn’t be a big deal to smoke it a little early, even if he’d already had his secret stash, even if Barsad wasn’t home at the time.  _Barsad…_   No, he couldn’t worry about him right then, he just needed a distraction, needed to get warm.  “You want the other one?” he asked as he lifted the baggie out of the can.  He hadn’t smoked that much in one day since he’d first tried it, but he figured just one more wouldn’t be _too_ much.

Kojo tilted his head in consideration of the offer, then shrugged and held out his hand.  “Sure, why not,” he agreed.

John couldn’t help grinning a bit; hash was better shared.  So he lit his own, and then held up the flame for Kojo to light his, and they both inhaled a good breath-full.  Before long, or so it seemed, the small kitchen was filled with a hazy, shifting layer of smoke floating above them where they sat against the lower set of cupboards, and neither of them heard the door at first, until a grunt followed its opening, and John realized with a sinking feeling that they’d been caught.  Of course, that also meant that the men had to be home, so he stood up quickly to see if they were okay, or, at least, he tried to stand up quickly to see if they were okay.  Instead of that, half of his body rose, the other half making a pathetic flail at the attempt. 

 “H-heyyy,” he drawled out unintentionally.  A snort stopped his giggle, and his worry quieted him directly after when he saw the way that Barsad’s arm was draped over Bane’s shoulders to support his weight.  He was leaning heavily on the taller man, and his free arm was bent over his stomach, hand curled around his side that was bandaged.  “Are… Are you okay?”  He nearly dropped his joint as his body went slack, having to lean against the doorframe as the men passed by, Barsad getting eased down onto the couch carefully by Bane.

 “He will be,” Bane replied, his voice heavy as he adjusted Barsad’s legs up onto the rest of the couch so he was lying down, his back propped up on the arm of the couch.

 “Did…” John felt his mouth run dry, and he had to swallow a couple of times before he could continue.  His mind was filling the smoky air with old nightmares, fears of riddled bodies punched straight through before they could return home in the night.  He was stoned, sure, but he knew it wasn’t the weed; weed didn’t tend to give him hallucinations, and his sober mind had a way of fucking itself over when it came to his worries and fears.  “Did he get shot?”  The tips of his fingers were so cold, almost numb, and the joint dropped to the floor.  “Shit,” he slipped, frantically plucking it up before it could ignite any of the fibers of the carpet. 

Barsad tilted his head back to look over at John, his eyes half-lidded and seeming so tired.  “I am right here to ask, Éinín,” he chided.  “And I smell an early burning of your leaf, little one.”  There was a tease to his tone, but John knew he was still in trouble.  “Come closer.”

Rubbing his arm with his free hand and holding the joint carefully between his fingers and thumb, John stepped over to sit on the coffee table facing Barsad, swallowing nervously, worriedly.  “It’s o-only a little early, and… fuck, are you _okay_?”  A large hand squeezed lightly at the back of his neck in warning, and he cursed even worse in his head for slipping up so badly in front of both of them.  “…Sorry,” he croaked out.

Instead of admonishing him further, Barsad merely reached out and deftly maneuvered the blunt out of John’s hold, twirling it into his own.  Lifting it to his lips, he took a light breath, probably so as not to hurt his ribs in the process, eyes closing as he savored the smoke.  “I’ll live, and I will heal, my little bird.  I think I shall keep this, however,” he spoke solemnly. 

 “…I-I guess that’s fair, huh,” John replied through a bit of disappointment.  He reached out to lightly run his fingers along the gauze taped around the man’s side; part of the material near his stomach and ribs was discolored a ruddy pink, and John felt his stomach flip over.  “I-is it… I mean are you… do you need anything?”

 “I would say I need my boy to be sober, but I think he is far gone right now, isn’t he.”  There was a twinkle in his eye, and he handed the joint back to John who gratefully took another hit.  By then, Kojo had emerged from the kitchen to join them, and Bane greeted him with a nod.

How did _they_ know each other?  John watched them, watched their suspicious faces.  He could feel there was a history there, something he didn’t know about yet.  He could literally feel it; it was crawling on his fingertips. 

 “So what’s going on?” he asked as he moved to sit on the edge of the couch next to Barsad, careful not to jostle the man.  The hand not holding his joint got an affectionate squeeze for the shift.

 “With what, exactly?” Bane questioned in return, answering a question with a question as he was maddeningly skilled at.  He stepped back out the door to gather several packs of supplies that Barsad would normally have carried into the apartment himself, had he not been injured.  He dropped the motorcycle helmet onto a chair near them, and John had to wonder how that ride had been with Bane trying to steer and Barsad hurt, unlikely able to hold onto Bane very strongly.

John gestured the weed-holding hand at Kojo.  “I mean, he says _she_ sent him here, and he’s acted like he knows you guys, and then I see you two making eyes at each other, and I wanna know what’s goin’ on.”

Barsad hadn’t been able to help a chuckle as John mentioned ‘making eyes,’ though he winced and grunted for the trouble it caused him.  Bane walked back over to lay a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder from behind the end of the couch.  “Rest, brother,” he ordered.  “Perhaps it would be best to move you to the bed…”

 “I’ll be alright,” Barsad protested; though he groaned a bit as he tried to carefully shift his position against the couch’s cushions, and Bane grunted a disagreement.  John was lightly, though insistently, pushed out of the way as Bane leaned to gather Barsad into his arms, one hooked under his knees and the other holding around his back firmly.  Without another word, he was carried out of the main room and straight into the larger of the two bedrooms that branched off of it. 


	15. Chapter 15

Looking over the back of the couch, John watched as Barsad was carefully settled onto their bed, one of Bane’s large hands reaching out to cup and caress his cheek once he was let go.  Barsad tilted his head to kiss the other man’s palm lightly, both gestures that were by then familiar occurrences to John.  He’d learned that the nature of their relationship was deeper and more intimate than the epithet of ‘brother’ had implied to him when he’d first known them.  In truth, they were a lot closer to really being ‘his gay dads’ than he had ever thought years ago.

After another cheek stroke and a touch to his chest—feather-light due to the wound and his bandaging—Bane covered Barsad with a blanket and walked back out to join the boys.  “So,” he hissed, his voice still weighed down by the worry John shared.  “You wish to know what is going on?”

John gulped, always wary of questioning Bane, but feeling much more loose than usual with how much he had smoked already that day.  A glance at the window corrected him—night.  It was dark out already; how had he not even noticed that the entire day had gone by?  They must have been gone a good eight hours, given how early in the day they had left, maybe ten, even.  He had to wonder how many of those hours Barsad had already been in pain.  He had not paid attention to the time listed on the news, so he had no idea when exactly that shooting had taken place, but he knew it’d at least been light out when the reporters had been on-site.

 “Y-yeah,” he spoke as he finally found his voice again.  “What’s up with him being here?”  Bane gestured for him to sit back on the couch, and with one last glance through the doorway to Barsad, he did.  Kojo joined him after a moment, John scooting over slightly so there was space between them once again.

 “Our main purpose for remaining in Gotham has been fulfilled,” Bane began, grunting slightly as he took a seat across from the boys so he could face them, and, of course, Barsad.  “Our plans are set in motion, and now a new purpose has arisen.”

John sat forward slightly, eager.  He had never been spoken to so bluntly about their plans or mission.  It had to do with the money they were paid by Falcone, of course, and he’d figured out Talia was part of it, but they never offered too much up.  Maybe he was old enough at last.  “What’s the new one?” he breathed, unable to help sounding in awe.  He held his breath after, willing the man to give him the information that he craved.

Kojo gave him a sidelong glance that John caught out of the corner of his eye; he didn’t like how amused he looked.  Legs crossed all casually, he looked so much more relaxed than John even when he had three joints’ worth coursing through his body.  That’s when it clicked for him; Kojo already knew what Bane was going to say, he knew their mission.  But how could he, and why?

 “…You fucking know, don’t you, you little bastard…”  The cuff to his head was much more harsh this time, sharp, the kind one was given when the hope of it was to stave off the need for a second or, heaven-forbid, a third.  “…Sorry,” he quickly forced out.

The noise from Bane’s throat proved he didn’t quite believe the apology to be as sincere as he might prefer to hear.  “It would appear the smoke you are so fond of loosens your tongue,” he accused, glancing beyond John’s head to the bedroom, as if challenging even the resting Barsad to deny the point.  “Perhaps it would be best after all not to allow you to continue its use.”

His eyes widened.  Now was a crucial moment, and even his relaxed mind could recognize that.  There had to be a very delicate balance in his reply; he couldn’t seem to react too strongly to the idea of taking away his weed, or else Bane would deem him addicted and take it away for sure because addiction was unhealthy.  Then again, he also couldn’t react too little, or it’d show he didn’t care enough to make it important to let him keep it.  Unfortunately, there was a gap between recognizing the balance was necessary and then being capable of achieving it.  Even sober, he tended too much toward gut-driven emotional responses to be able to do it, let alone high as a kite.  He wasn’t sure exactly what he came out with, in the end, but in his ears it sounded like gibberish, not words.

Bane raised an eyebrow at him, and perhaps it really had been gibberish that left his mouth.  “It will be easier to make a clean break from it for now, either way,” he pronounced.  “You will not be seeing Wendell for a while, as it is.”

That got his attention back to the conversation they _had_ been having before his hash habit had been brought into it.  “Wait… why won’t I be seeing Wendell?... Can I not keep the job?  Does that have something to do with the new plan?  With this kid?”

 “Kojo,” the guy supplied.

John waved a hand dismissively in his general direction, not bothering to take his eyes from Bane’s face.  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.  Does it?”

 “Your instincts tell you that Kojo is a child?” he was questioned, a slight tilt to Bane’s head indicating that he was actually curious.

 “Not a _child_ ,” he clarified.  “But a kid, like I’m a kid… just maybe a couple of years older… why?  And what’s the new mission you need to fulfill?  Why can’t you just tell me?”

A hand was held up in front of him to forestall any further questions from bubbling out of his excited face.  “Calm.”  He managed to at least shut up for the moment to let Bane answer.  “In fact, it does have to do with Kojo,” Bane began, a look forestalling the whine that started to emerge from John.  “It also has to do with _you_ , little one,” he finished.

John sat up quickly at that; too quickly.  His head swam and the room spun as his eyes tried to catch up.  He groaned and pressed his palms to his temples even as Kojo rested a hand on his back to steady him.  It wasn’t until the kid gripped his side that he realized he’d started to list towards the edge of the couch.  “Me?” he croaked, sounding so much less adult than he’d hoped he would when this time finally came up.  Clearing his throat, he tried again, “I mean… me?  It really does?”  Balance regained, he pushed Kojo’s hand away roughly.  “I get to help?”

 “It is not that you will help, but that you and Kojo are the new purpose itself.”  When John just stared at him, he continued.  “Both of you have shown promise, and Talia would like you to be properly trained.  To do this, we will leave Gotham.”

 “F-For where?”  John’s excitement left him breathless, like he didn’t even need to breathe.

 “The exact location is not necessary,” Bane replied with a wave of his fingers.  “But we will be travelling to Europe by the end of the month, provided Barsad heals sufficiently.”

The end of the month was less than two weeks away.  Fuck, that was soon.  “Wait,” he paused, trying to think through the logistics of all of that.  “I don’t have a passport; don’t you need one of those to leave the country?”

 “We will take care of those things,” he was assured.  “For now, let the leaf be finished and flushed from your system before we speak again.”  With a grunt for the effort and a creak of protest from the wood, Bane pushed off of the coffee table and walked past them back into the bedroom with Barsad.  A quick glance back over John’s shoulder showed the man sliding onto the bed to carefully hold the other.

 “Damn,” John breathed.  “Europe… I’ve never even left the city, let alone the country.”  Fumbling with his lighter, he re-lit the joint that had lost its embers, taking a deep hit—it would be pointless to waste it. 

Kojo stole the lighter to follow suit, laughing soundlessly as he scooted over towards John, draping his arm over the back of the couch again.  “You really can’t stop that mouth of yours, can you, John…”  He was almost up against him by then.

 “Yeah, yeah.  Go back to your side, dude, this is my end of the couch.”

 “Perhaps you merely need something else to do with it,” Kojo smirked in a very suspicious manner.  Really, he was a lot closer than he needed to be.  Personal space clearly meant nothing to this kid.

John waggled the joint in front of the guy’s face.  “Got something, thanks.”

 “That does not appear to be very effective, I think. But I have another idea…”  His voice trailed off and, really, his face needed to move back, because his eyes were right in front of John’s, and he could feel his breath on his cheek.

 “H-Hey,” he spoke as clearly as he could, half-croaked again, swallowing to wet his throat.  “Uh… back up, dude, c’mon…”

Kojo shrugged.  “I like it over here just fine.”

 “Yeah, well, I could use some more space over here, thanks… so…” he started to lean forward, but Kojo got in the way.  More specifically, Kojo’s face got in the way.

Even more specifically, his lips.  Kojo’s lips were suddenly pressed up against John’s, and he didn’t even know what to do with that.  He just stayed that way, not kissing back, but eyes widened.  Finally, he got his wits back after a few moments that felt a lot longer, yanking his head away.  “What the fuck?” he demanded.

 “Have you not been kissed before, John?” Kojo smirked, not leaning away.

John started to react defensively, but he couldn’t deny that that had, in fact, pathetically, been his first kiss.  “Yeah, no, I mean… whatever… I hadn’t, but I’m not GAY, dude.”

 “Well how do you know?  Have you dated?”

 “…No…”

 “Have you ever been attracted to anyone before?”

 “…Dude…”

 “Well, you say you’re not gay, but how do you know?”

John could hear soft laughter behind him, and he knew then that Barsad had heard everything; had probably even seen everything.  Goddamn it.  He was too high for this shit.


	16. Chapter 16

It turned out that he didn’t have to worry about his passport or about his travelling somehow alerting missing persons when his name came up in the computers.  On their taxi ride to the airport, Bane and Kojo taking the motorcycle because they had another way into the terminals, Barsad had presented him with a small folder and a chain wallet.

“What’s all this for?” he asked, opening the snaps of the wallet and being surprised to see his own face staring back at him.  “A new ID?”  He froze, then broke out in a wide grin when he spotted the words ‘driver’s license’ on the card.  Only after that did he spot that his birth date had been changed to make him sixteen instead of fourteen, and he was no longer listed as Robin John Blake.  The card that he held proclaimed him as Jonathan O’Kelley; it was surreal to have someone else’s name under his picture.  “O’Kelley…” he spoke aloud to get the sound in his head.  “John O’Kelley.”

“Aye,” Barsad breathed quietly beside him.  “Yours goes with mine.”  He held out his own ID for John’s inspection. ‘Keegan O’Kelley’ was printed below his photo.  “My brother requires less open travel, and so you and I will go as father and son.”  Opening the small folder, Barsad showed him his passport.

John felt a grin spreading across his face again.  “So… is this just for the trip?  Or is it like, you know legal…”  He said it as a joke, but couldn’t deny that part of him was hoping it was true.

With a smirk, Barsad tucked his paperwork away.  “Legal is a relative term, little bird… But all of the paperwork is complete; according to records, should anyone look, you are my adopted child.”

It was almost too much.  John flung his arms around Barsad’s neck and shoulders, sniffing back a few tears he preferred not to admit were readying to drop out of his eyes as he squeezed them shut.  “So it’s for real, official… you’re my dad, now…”  He couldn’t keep the emotion from his voice, but Barsad didn’t seem to mind.

“I think I have been so for some time now, Éinín,” he replied, giving John’s back a pat as he finally settled.  “But it is legal, now, if anything can be so.”

“It’s not our real names, though,” he suddenly realized, feeling a bit less excited.  “So it’s all fake, then, right?”

Shaking his head slightly, Barsad laid a reassuring hand on John’s knee.  “It is as real as such things can ever be, little one.  My name was once O’Kelley, long ago, in what feels like another life entirely.  You are now Jonathan O’Kelley, once John Blake, orphan, and now my son on paper as you have been in fact for the past six years.”  He shrugged slightly.  “The normal effect of adoption is not so very much different, is it?”

“Oh,” he considered that a moment.  “I guess not, huh… So… what about Bane?  Is he part of it at all?”  He knew the mask was too conspicuous to travel where there were cameras, but maybe he had a new identity, too.

“No,” Barsad smiled at him.  “He prefers to exist outside such things, and that works best for him.  But that makes him no less a father for you, as this paperwork changes nothing between us.”

He nodded, reassured enough for the moment.  “…Wait, how is he even getting on the plane, then?”

The answer to that, apparently, was that he wasn’t.  Apparently, all of their questionable equipment and bags had gone with Bane and Kojo in a private plane, free from the scrutiny of airport security—by remaining undocumented.  It made sense, of course.  He’d asked why they weren’t just all flying that way, but Barsad explained that, for one thing, it was wise at times to keep up a working alias appearance, and for another, he had thought John would prefer the larger, smoother ride.  He had no frame of reference, but took Barsad’s word for it.  As it was, the plane was pretty comfortable. 

It wasn’t until they were already on that plane, thousands of miles in the air, that John was told about the League of Shadows.  He learned how long they had been operating—a lot longer than he had even been alive, centuries, as he was informed.  All three of his family members were also members of the group that worked, as they claimed, to rid the world of corruption.  He already knew that that task was not always a simple one, knew that sometimes blood had to be spilled, sacrifices had to be made… but darkness must be allowed to rise before it could be banished completely, a forest fire allowed to grow and rage in order to purge the land.  At least, that was how Barsad had described it, and it made sense in his head; he could picture it.  It was the League that they were going to Europe to join up with—for Bane and Barsad, it was a reunion, but for Kojo and John, it was to be a sort initiation he guessed, a start of their training as Talia had asked for.  Well, a start for John, since apparently Kojo had more experience in such things than he did. 

They exchanged planes once across the ocean, switched to a train after, and then finally a more private, smaller plane shuttled them up into the mountains.  The view out of the small windows was breathtaking.  Every peak was topped with snow, and the rocky outcroppings dotted the ground below them, so far below.  He had never seen anything like it, even in pictures.  The landing was a bit rough, and he found himself clinging to Barsad, eyes squeezed shit as he did his best to keep his memories out of his head.  Barsad was kind enough not to mention the small marks John’s nails had sunk into his skin from gripping his arm too tightly.  When they finally exited the plane, Bane and Kojo were waiting for them with an SUV.  The plane took off again almost immediately, leaving them alone with the mountain road that lead away from the airstrip. 

Barsad and Bane rode up front, leaving Kojo squished way too closely against him with the bags and bins that stacked the back and one side of the rear seat.  Along the bumpy mountain roads, the older boy shifted his arm over the back of the seat, which only made him slip closer to John.  He could smell a faint, musky scent on him, cologne, he guessed; it wasn’t completely unpleasant, at least, which was good because he got a nose full of it when he burrowed inadvertently against Kojo when the SUV’s wheels slipped on the messy road, John’s ready panic seizing him.  The arm over the back of the seat settled down around John’s shoulders, Kojo’s large hand clasping around his shoulder and upper arm as he couldn’t help a few shudders from running through his frame.

“We are close, Éinín,” Barsad spoke from his spot driving the vehicle.  He was carefully eyeing John in the edge of the rearview mirror, checking on him here and there.

“I-I’m okay, it’s okay,” he stammered, annoyed with himself that he couldn’t keep his voice completely steady, that he couldn’t handle a fucking car ride.  He was getting better with it all, at least, and only a couple moments went by before he felt his heartbeat slow to its normal rate.  Pushing at the arm, he ducked his head back underneath it and squished himself up against the window to get some breathing room from the guy.  “I’m fine,” he repeated.

“I’m sure you are,” Kojo replied, and it took a moment and a scrutinizing look to convince John that it hadn’t been spoken in sarcasm.  But Kojo wasn’t even looking at him, he was watching something out the windows, ducking his tall frame in order to see higher.  “Look, John,” he said quietly as he pointed out the left side of the SUV. 

When he leaned to look, positioning him over Kojo’s lap which he chose not to think about, he saw an impressively large town built right into the mountainside.  Though more peaks rose above, the majority of the incline was now below them, giving both sides a breathtaking view.  “Wow,” he breathed, staring in wonder.  The sights greeting him were a far cry from the dirty streets and metal-encased buildings of Gotham that he called home.  A smile crept over his face at how much it felt like a dream, but he knew it was real.

They stayed in the village that night, though he learned at the last minute that their journey wouldn’t end there—they were going to hike the mountain when it was light again.  They were apparently headed for a fortress of some kind, where the League trained its members, and it was only accessible on foot.  John was unbelievably excited, of course, but he was also extremely nervous.  What if he wasn’t good enough?  Bane had told him he wasn’t in charge, that there was another at the head of the League, and John was worried that whatever his dads saw in him just wouldn’t appear for this new man.  He needed to make a good impression, both for his own sake and for Bane and Barsad’s, as well, because they believed in him and they’d brought him here.  He was determined to make them proud that he was their son.

When he awoke to breakfast—cooked oats and sausage—he was surprised to find three more men inside the small house.  They were getting help to move the equipment they had brought, and they would all climb together.  It was rough going when they finally set out, even with clear weather, and it was so cold that John was convinced more than once that his limbs were going to fall off or simply revolt and abandon him.  They stopped a couple of times to catch their breath, but that was almost more painful than keeping going.  It gave his body time to process just how chill the wind was against his face, how cold the air was biting into his lungs, how deep the snow was as it swallowed his legs halfway to his knees with each effortful step, and how much mountain was left yet to climb.  There was no fortress in sight, even hours into their trek.

Leaning his weight against an exposed boulder, he adjusted the goggles that were thankfully keeping the sting of billowing snow out of his eyes.  “Is it… is it a LOT further?” he asked Barsad quietly, not really wanting any of the other men to hear something close to a complaint come out of him.  Unfortunately, Bane heard him anyway.  It never failed; even with the mask covering up his ears, the man had better hearing than John could ever hope for.

“It will not be long, little one,” Bane replied, patting John on the shoulder.  He didn’t sound winded at all, even though breathing in the cold air through all of that metal couldn’t be a pleasant experience.

“And is, uh, your definition of ‘not long’ the same as mine?” he asked carefully.  It earned him a cuff to the ear from Bane, but a loud laugh from Barsad, so he figured he wasn’t in real trouble.  He didn’t get an answer, though, so he also guessed that was his punishment for sassing.

A couple of hours later, they rounded a particularly large rock pile, and the planks and towers of what had to be the League’s fortress came into view.  It was huge, larger than John had even imagined it, and it sat in a crook of the mountain, surrounded on all sides by the expanse of snowy ground. 

“Damn,” he breathed out.  “It’s fucking huge.”  The curse earned him a cuff to the back of his head.  “Well it is!” he defended.

As they ducked under the shelter of an overhanging roof, Bane stopped John while the other men who had hiked with them passed them, heading inside.  “Your behavior in the next few minutes is important, John.”  He had taken off his goggles, and the fierceness of his eyes bored into John’s.  “Inside, you will not speak until spoken to, and you will stay by our sides without wandering, do you understand?”

John nodded quickly, solemnly.  “Yes, sir.” 

Barsad led the way, Bane behind John, as they entered and hung up their snow-ready clothing, exchanging soaked boots for dry ones.  The entire entryway seemed set up for quick changes like that, boots of a range of sizes were stacked in neat rows on shelves, hats and gloves and goggles of many different sorts on others; it looked rather like a store to John, except no one was paying.  Once dry enough, he was led further in, passing what he could only equate to a black-smith’s area, a room filled with swords, and out through large open spaces in which many men were sparring either hand-to-hand, with weapons, or in a kind of melee all together.  It was chaotic and highly ordered all at once, and it made John’s head spin, his eyes wide in curious wonder. 

He hadn’t realized his mouth was hanging open until Bane’s hand reached forward over his shoulder to lift his chin.  Chagrined, he held his jaw more securely for the rest of the way through the open rooms and up a long flight of stairs that turned and twisted several times before opening out into a hallway that ran the length of the upper level of the building.  Walking down it, he had an amazing view out from the mountainside, even through the sparkling clouds of snow that blew out over the top of the building’s roof.  At the end of the hall, Barsad paused, making sure they were still right behind him.  He shared a look with Bane, one John hadn’t ever witnessed before, and with a touch to John’s shoulder, Bane left them, returning partway down the hall to a smaller staircase and descending.  John was about to question Barsad as he turned back to face him, but the man put a finger to his lips to remind John he was supposed to stay silent. 

Barsad turned, then, and rapped three solid knocks on the thick, sliding wooden doors at which they had stopped.  They opened a moment after, being pulled aside by a man at each side.  They were dressed in all black armor, and the handle of a sword was visible above each of their shoulders, strapped to their backs, he assumed.  John stared, and had to be pulled at slightly to get him started into the room with Barsad.  Head ducking down, he followed him closely, not wanting to appear troublesome again, and not wanting to get too far away from the man, either, in this strange place.  Once they were through, the doors were closed behind them, sliding together with a shushing sound and a soft thunk of wood-on-wood.  Eyes shifting forward just as Barsad stopped, John quickly came to a halt behind him, just then noticing the man at the far end of the room, his back to them, hands clasped casually behind his back.  The man wore a linen suit, not one of armor, but there was a weight and a quiet power about him even before he turned, as if the air around him was different.  It made John’s insides start to roll somersaults. 

Barsad stood a step in front of him, to the side enough to let him see, and, he realized after a moment, to allow John to _be_ seen.  “John,” he spoke quietly but clearly, steadily, and with a respect to his tone that was not at all meant for John though he addressed him, “allow me to introduce you to our master, and now yours.” 

The suited man turned around to face them, the lines of his neatly-trimmed goatee lending length and severity to his features to match the ferocity in his clear blue eyes.  John could see them shine from halfway across the room.  “John Blake, meet Ra’s al Ghul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For those unfamiliar with the story... There is a sequel, which I'll re-post tomorrow. If it can ever get out of my head, there will also be a concluding portion of the series._


End file.
